


To Dwell on Dreams

by Ela_Elle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:14:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ela_Elle/pseuds/Ela_Elle
Summary: "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live." Hermione Granger is a married witch. Hermione Granger is a married witch with a toddler. Hermione Granger is a married witch with a toddler and sure, maybe she's having some weird dreams right now, but that's certainly not your business.





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my beautiful little tropical fish. Thank you for reading my latest fic. Much like my life, this fic is a WIP that is mostly planned out, but not mostly written, so there will be no like, dedicated update schedule or any such nonsense. You get what you get! Also, this work isn't beta'd, it's just me all by myself, so like, be kind I suppose. Or not! Up to you! Thanks for reading and reviewing and all that jazz!

_“What the actual fuck am I doing_ **_here_ ** _?” the witch demanded into the stillness. There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. Not even the lonely chirping of a bird or buzzing insect. Just, nothing._

_Huffing her impatience, she took a step forward and stumbled, bare feet slipping on the dewy early morning grass. “What?” Hermione Granger looked down at her unclad feet and then, eyes narrowing, she turned her face up to the castle that loomed in the distance. “Hogwarts. What the fuck am I doing here?”_

_Hogwarts did not appear unfriendly, situated as it was above the sunny opening of trees Hermione found herself in, it was just impossible for such an ancient castle to_ **_not_ ** _loom. Thousand year old castles don’t sit quaintly like little houses in Surrey; even if there wasn’t anything nefarious about them, medieval castles loomed. So there was Hogwarts,_ **_looming_ ** _in the distance._

_And Hermione was not pleased._

_She did not want to dream of Hogwarts._

_“George said this would be different,” she spoke aloud, crinkling her nose in a mixture of contemplation and disgust. Hermione was already formulating the thesis that would begin her speech to George Weasley illustrating just how this potion was_ **_not_ ** _going to “revolutionize” sleep as we knew it. The sentences were congealing in her mind, syllables tying together to create words that would not only make her point absolutely clear but would also shame him into-_

_“Different than what?” A voice behind her asked and Hermione pivoted, grasping for a wand she did not have._

**_Bloody dreamland._ **

_Logically she knew there was no need for a wand, any threat the dreamscape presented wasn’t real, that was the whole bloody point, wasn’t it? But Hermione Granger had not survived a war with passivity and ineptitude, she had survived a war by training her body and mind to respond instantaneously to threats. She had survived a war with a talent and tenacity few possessed and currently she_ **_did not have a wand._ **

_Hermione was further displeased._

_The voice seemed to belong to a man who Hermione was fairly certain hadn’t been there a moment ago, but wasn’t that just the way dreams were? Confusing and disconcerting. She hated dreams, but as the act or concept of dreaming was a bit abstract for one to funnel hate towards, Hermione found herself directing said hatred at the black haired, obnoxiously muscled man before, or rather,_ **_behind_ ** _her._

_“Ugh, what is my subconscious doing right now?” she asked the dream man, placing a hand on her hip. “What’re_ **_you_ ** _supposed to represent?” The witch gestured her free hand at him._

_The man’s dark eyebrows shot up his pale forehead and he guffawed at her, a sound that seemed at odds with his imposing visage. “_ **_What am I supposed to represent?_ ** _” he repeated indignantly, a hand on his chest._

_Hermione rolled her amber eyes. “You know what, it doesn’t matter.” She turned back around to face the castle. “I’m just going to figure out how to wake up.”_

_Shouldn’t be too difficult, she was a witch, wasn’t she?_

_“Are you?” Hermione didn’t need to see the mystery dream man to note the skepticism in his voice._

_She ignored him, instead she pinched her forearm._ **_Nope, nothing. Better safe than sorry, though._ ** _Next, she tried simply willing herself to awaken. Hermione closed her eyes tightly, forehead wrinkling and mouth drawing into a thin line._

_She opened her eyes. Hogwarts was still there._

_The witch tapped her bare foot impatiently._ **_Why are my feet bare?_ ** _Briefly making note of the black linen dress she was wearing, a garment she did not own in real life, Hermione then tried_ **_willing_ ** _herself a pair of shoes. Also nothing. “Hmph, figures,” she mumbled._

_“I have to admit, I always expected the deductive process of the Brightest Witch of Our Age to be a bit more..._ **_impressive_ ** _.”_

_Hermione whirled, eyes narrowed and face twisted into the sort of malice she would absolutely have schooled were this waking life, but seeing as this was a dream and none of it was real she didn’t exactly care if she was being rude._

_“Salazar,” he chortled, arms now crossed over his broad chest, “you’re feistier than I recall.”_

_Hermione’s eyes narrowed further. Feistier than he recalled? He did seem_ **_awfully_ ** _familiar. Broad. Imposing. Incredibly unattractive sneer painted across his pale features. Vaguely Malfoy-ish but not with the same unfailing air of aristocracy. Somewhat troll like._

_“Flint,” Hermione said, mouth slightly agape. “_ **_Why_ ** _in all of heaven and hell_ **_are you here_ ** _?”_

_“_ **_Me_ ** _?” the Dream Flint asked. “This is my dream, Granger, get your own.”_

_Hermione squeezed the bridge of her nose with the thumb and middle finger of her right hand and took a long, fortifying breath. “I thought this was supposed to_ **_revolutionize sleep,_ ** _bloody George, and instead I’m dealing with Marcus sodding Flint outside of Hogwarts, I have no shoes and I can’t figure out how to wake up. Bloody_ **_brilliant._ ** _” The witch threw her hands up and turned her face skyward. “Why the hell would my brain conjure Marcus Flint right now?” She turned back to him, hand on her chin. “Maybe there’s some sort of meaning in this I’m not discerning yet, a lesson from my subconscious. You must represent something I’m repressing.”_

_Marcus blinked. “You’re fucking barmy.”_

_“Possibly.” Hermione shrugged. “It would certainly explain why my brain conjured_ **_you_ ** _of all people.”_

_“Your brain didn’t conjure_ **_anyone_ ** _,” he insisted, pointing at her as he spoke. “This is_ **_my_ ** _dream. I conjured you!”_

_“Hmm,” Hermione hummed, considering the dream spectre for a moment._ **_Odd that he’s wearing Muggle jeans and black t-shirt._ ** _She glanced down at his feet. “No shoes either.”_

_“What?”_

_“You’re not wearing shoes either, Flint.”_

_Marcus looked down. “Oh,” he looked back up. “Does that mean something?”_

_Hermione sighed. “I would’ve hoped some sort of dream messenger would be more self-aware, this makes everything trickier to figure out. Perhaps I’m crafting a puzzle for myself.”_

_“Oh my gods, I’m in hell. This isn’t a dream. I’ve died and gone to hell.” Marcus scrubbed his face with his large hands. “I wasn’t so bad, was I?” he asked no one. “Not so bad that I deserved hell.”_

_“Perhaps,” Hermione mused, tapping her chin with her index finger. “Perhaps I have to_ **_understand_ ** _your message and_ **_then_ ** _I can wake up.”_

_“Y’know, at this point I’m willing to try just about anything to get away from you.” Marcus sighed. “Alright, Granger, do your worst.”_

_The witch raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Goodness, what could I possibly be trying to tell myself?”_

_“Whatever it is, I hope you figure it out so we can both wake up from this- whatever the hell this is.” Marcus gave the area a sweeping gaze. “I don’t remember Hogwarts looking this..._ **_immaculate_ ** _.”_

_“See, that’s too big a word for Marcus Flint.” But she had to admit Dream Flint had a point; there was something eerily perfect about the castle outskirts she found herself in. Not a blade of grass out of place, neither cold nor warm but perfectly balanced to the temperature of the human body despite the sun shining brilliantly through the trees, though not so brilliantly that eyes need be shielded from it. Hermione assumed the pristine conditions to be a byproduct of the dream._

_“Oh_ **_fuck you_ ** _, you absolute bitch.”_

_“Ahh now there’s Marcus Flint.” Hermione smiled, feeling more at ease with the familiarity of his behaviour. “Now why would my mind conjure a childhood bully turned into this muscle-bound-” she waved up and down at him”-_ **_troll_ ** _I see before me?”_

_“Oh for fuck’s sake, the troll stuff again?” Marcus growled, throwing his head back in exasperation. “I fixed my fucking teeth, what el- wait,” he stopped, head snapping up, wry smile creeping to his lips. “Did you say_ **_muscle-bound_ ** _?”_

_“Oh gods,” Hermione groaned, “don’t look so pleased.”_

_But Marcus looked very pleased._

_“I was merely stating a fact, you have far too many muscles. It’s part of why I know you can’t_ **_possibly_ ** _be real. No living human has that sort of musculature.”_

_“I have to say, adult Granger, though still a fucking swot, is honestly quite fit as well.” He grinned. “Maybe this isn’t hell.”_

_A pained expression crossed Hermione’s dark face. “Godric, what is my brain trying to tell me? Are you sure you don’t have a message for me? Think hard, Flint, I know it might be difficult for you, so don’t strain yourself. ”_

_Marcus glowered, an act his facial features predisposed him to being quite adept at._

_“Is-is that your thinking face?” Hermione asked cautiously._

_“I take it back, this is hell. An eternity of being judged and insulted by the Golden Swot of Gryffindor.”_

_“Oh, is that the lesson I need to learn here? Do I need to find a way to be kind to you and then it’s over?”_

_“You seem very convinced that there’s a lesson in here, maybe you conjured me because you think I’m fit,_ **_maybe_ ** _this is a racey dream.”_

_Hermione stared at Marcus for a long moment, head ever so slightly cocked to the side, and then burst out laughing. Leaning over, she steadied herself by placing her hands on her knees as she quickly found herself unable to breathe._

_“It’s not_ **_that_ ** _funny,” Marcus commented, eyebrows lowered._

_Hermione held up a hand, still bent forward. “Stop talking,” she managed to get out between peals of laughter. “I- I can’t-” she couldn’t finish her sentence, the giggles overcame her._

_Marcus did what his face did best and glowered._

_After a few moments, tremors of laughter slowing, Hermione stood up and used her index finger to wipe away tears from under her eyes. “Oh gosh, that was- that was_ **_good_ ** _, thank you,” she chortled and then took a deep breath. “I haven’t laughed like that in ages. I needed that.”_

_“If being kind to me is the lesson you need to learn for us to get out of here, you’re failing spectacularly,” Marcus drawled, placing particular emphasis on that last word._

_“Too right,” Hermione conceded, hints of giggles barely faded lacing her voice._

_“I don’t even know why I’m playing along with this,” the wizard mumbled. “This is_ **_my_ ** _dream, I bought that bloody concoction from those fucking Weasleys and_ **_this_ ** _is what it gets me. A night of mockery by Harry Potter’s pet swot. Un-fucking-believable.”_

_“Y’know what, Dream Flint,” Hermione began, her face growing stoney as she spoke. “This isn’t the night I had planned either.”_

_“Dream Flint?” Marcus furrowed his heavy brow. “I am_ **_not_ ** _Dream Flint. I am_ **_Real_ ** _Flint,” he insisted, patting his chest for emphasis._

_“Whatever.”_

_“Oh hex me in the fucking face.”_

_“Would if I could.” Hermione waved her wandless hand, attempting to cast a stinging hex at the dream apparition._

_“What are you doing?” he asked, staring at her hand._

_“I’m trying to hex you.”_

_“It’s not working.”_

_“_ **_Clearly_ ** _.”_

_“So we can’t do magic in our dreams?”_

_“This is_ **_my_ ** _dream- oh you know what-” Hermione cut herself off with a sigh, “I think for the sake of_ **_simplicity_ ** _I’ll have to stop trying to convince you that you’re a figment of my subconscious, it’s really getting tiring.”_

_“Thank the gods for small miracles.”_

_“Let’s try this again then, shall we?” Hermione placed both hands on her hips. “How’s life been treating you Real Flint who couldn’t possibly be a creation of my own dreamland?”_

_“I fucking hate you.”_

_“The feeling is- do you hear that?” Hermione grew very still, her body strained to listen._

_“Hear what?” Marcus asked, looking about._

_“That...ringing?”_

Hermione rolled over and slammed her fist into the Muggle alarm clock stationed on her nightstand. She sat up, rubbing her eyes groggily. 

“Well, what the hell was that then?”

**April 25, 2009**

**Three Days Earlier**

“Here you go, baby girl.” Hermione wiped her forehead with the back of her dark hand and wandlessly floated a plate of scrambled eggs and bananas to the kitchen table where her daughter, Rose, sat bouncing in her toddler chair. The little girl smiled, revealing her freshly cut upper teeth, and clapped her hands gleefully as her breakfast carefully descended through the air to land in front of her.

“Brafast!” Rose exclaimed happily before awkwardly taking the bulky toddler fork in hand and stabbing at the food on her plate. Her bumbling attempts to feed herself like a big girl were often futile, but always adorable and Hermione smiled widely at her daughter.

“Ron!” Hermione called, turning to wash her hands in the sink. “Ron! You need to watch Rose so I can get dressed!” She waited a moment, listening, while she dried her hands. “Ron!” she called again.

A mop of shaggy ginger hair popped into the kitchen doorway. 

“Sorry, ‘Mione,” her husband apologized, pulling his toothbrush out of his mouth to speak. He quickly wiped a bit of toothpaste drool from his chin before it dropped to his bare chest. 

Hermione frowned. “You’re not ready yet?” she chastised. “Ron, I haven’t even showered yet.”

This was their morning arrangement. Hermione got up with Rose and made her breakfast while Ron got ready for work and then Ron watched Rose eat and got her dressed while Hermione took a shower. Or, at least, that was the _supposed_ arrangement. Ron was as dreadfully slow as ever and most mornings Hermione ended up bringing Rose into the bathroom with her and letting her daughter play on the floor while she took a hasty shower. 

But _today_ was supposed to be different, today she had a meeting with the minister at eight _sharp_ and she had to be in top form. No sloppily applied eyeliner and frizzy air dried curls, today Hermione needed to appear all the polished, put together and serious solicitor she was. Or the polished, put together, serious solicitor she was _before_ she had a toddler running about the place. 

“I know, I know!” Ron stuck his toothbrush back in his mouth and threw up his hands in a placating gesture. “You go shower, I’ll watch Rosie.”

“You’re not even dressed,” Hermione pointed out, motioning to her husband’s shirtless physique.

“Oh that was for you.” He wiggled his orange eyebrows and sauntered over to Hermione. “Figured you could use a bit of a show to calm your nerves this morning.” 

“Ron!” Hermione giggled, scooting away from him as he rubbed his bare chest suggestively against her arm. “Oh my gosh, you are incorrigible!” 

“All for you, my love,” Ron laughed, flexing an impressive bicep. “You like the gun show?”

Hermione put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “The gun show? Who taught you that Muggle phrase?”

“Harry,” Ron informed her, striking an Arnold Schwarzenegger type pose with one arm curled in front of him and one arm curled behind. Harry and Ron had gotten into working out together as of late, keeping Ron active after he’d left his Auror position to help George at the shop. Hermione really couldn’t complain, her husband’s body responded easily to exercise and his muscles that had rounded out in the last year had quickly reshaped into something altogether enticing.

Hermione’s body, however, had not. Pregnancy and childbirth had wreaked havoc on her tiny frame and though she was her pre-pregnancy weight again, the stretched skin of her abdomen did nothing for her self-esteem. The witch placed her arms around her stomach self-consciously, even as she laughed at her husband’s display.

“Alright well, I’m going to shower then,” Hermione chuckled, dodging past her husband as he reached out to grab her as she rushed out of the kitchen.

“How about a kiss, then?” he asked, letting toothpaste dribble out of his mouth.

“Ronald!” Hermione screeched, pushing away his face as Rosie squealed in delight.

oOo

(12:25 pm) **Proposal went perfectly!**

(12:27 pm) **I’m so excited! Ron this is just so amazing, all my hard work, all these months, it’s all coming together.**

(12:35 pm) **I can’t focus, that’s how excited I am**.

(12:36 pm) **We should go out for lunch.**

(12:37 pm) **What’re you doing right now? Are you busy?**

(12:45 pm) **Ron?**

(12:50 pm) greatnewslunchsoundsgood

(12:51 pm) howtomakespaces

(12:52 pm) **The ‘space’ bar, Ron, the ‘space’ bar.**

Hermione’s feet ached inside her black heels as she moved swiftly down the crowded streets of Diagon Alley, but she barely noticed. She was more concerned with how the slimming black pencil skirt she had selected this morning impeded her movements and made it difficult to do much more than powerwalk. But powerwalk she did, heels clicking the cobblestone, cheeks tinged pink with residual adrenaline form her fucking _fabulous_ meeting with Kingsley. Hermione Granger was unstoppable, even in a pencil skirt.

_Especially_ in a pencil skirt. 

Ginny had helped her pick this outfit. Professional, powerful, shaggable. Those had been Ginny Potter’s _exact_ words and her redheaded friend hadn’t been wrong. White satin top, buttoned just below her clavicle, sleeves delicately folded to her elbows, tucked into a high waisted black pencil skirt that hugged her post-pregnancy curves to just below her black stocking clad knees, black heels with a single strap around her ankle, hair pulled back into a loose, chic bun atop her head. 

Professional.

Powerful.

Shaggable.

_Thank you, Ginny._ Hermione smiled at herself conspiratorially as she pulled open the overly ornate door into Weasles’ Wizard Wheezes.

“Ron!” she called, weaving her way to the counter where her husband sat sorting through a box of what seemed to be small viles. Viles Hermione could only imagine were full of a liquid to turn one’s skin blue or cause a disturbing yet brief sickness in one’s enemies. There was no telling what brilliant yet ridiculous charms George had concocted. 

“Whatcha got?” she asked, resting her elbows on the counter and leaning forward to get a better look. 

“Not sure, honestly,” Ron admitted, placing one of the small, magenta bottles in front of Hermione. “Something George ordered.”

“Oh?” Hermione picked up the container gingerly between her thumb and index finger; no telling what it was capable of. “Not an invention of his own, then? It’s so small, it must only container two, maybe three ounces and no label either, that doesn’t bode well.”

Ron chuckled. “No, I reckon it doesn’t.”

Hermione lifted the glass vile up the light, squinting to get a better look at the contents. “Hmm… has the look of a-a _dreamless draught_ actually, but the color’s wrong.”

“Brilliant, as always!” George was suddenly behind Hermione, both hands on her shoulders.

“Circe, George!” Hermione gasped, wiping around to smack the wizard in the chest. 

“Such violence!” George exclaimed, rubbing the spot Hermione’d just hit. “That, my good sister-in-law is a _dreamful_ draught.”

“Dreamful draught?” Hemrione asked skeptically, turning the bottle. “Never heard of it.”

“No one has,” George said smugly. “Brand new, straight out of an apothecary in the States. No one on this side of the Atlantic is selling them.”

Hermione glanced over at George curiously, but she knew from experience that asking the more pertinent question of _why_ WWWs was the only shop selling these little draughts was pointless; he wouldn’t give her a straight answer. A sale’s pitch, however, now _that_ was something George Weasley couldn’t resist. “How does your little potion work, then?” she asked, placing the dreamful draught onto the counter. 

George grinned. “Oh, my charming little Gryffindor Princess.” 

Hermione cocked an eyebrow and Ron sighed.

“ _This_ is no _little potion,”_ George plucked the vile Hermione had been examining moments ago off the counter and held it up. “ _This_ is going to _revolutionize_ sleep as we know it.”

“That so?” Hermione drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Yes! Better than normal sleep, better than dreamless drought, better than any Muggle drug on the market,” George proclaimed and there was no missing that glint in his eye; mischief was about to be managed, of that Hermione had no doubt. 

The witch raised both her eyebrows. “So, it’s a drug?”

“Only in the strictest possible sense,” George grinned toothily.

“George!” Ron exclaimed, mouth slightly agape. “We can’t sell anything that’s- if it’s- Hermione, what word-”

“Illicit,” Hermione supplied.

“Illicit!” Ron nodded his head. 

“Ronnykins, sweet little Ronnykins, couldn’t _all potions_ be considered drugs?”

Ron looked up, considering this for a moment. “Well, I suppose…” he said slowly.

Hermione sighed deeply and looked down at her watch. “Ron, I’ve got about 47 minutes left for my lunch, so we really should be going.” The witch turned to her brother-in-law. “Good luck with your little _drug,”_ she chuckled.

George frowned genuinely, which was an uncommon enough occurence in itself, but then he stared at Hermione for a moment too long, obviously at a loss. 

“What?” she asked, readjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. 

“You-you’re not going to make some sort of fuss about this?”

“Why would I?”

The two wizards looked at each other, now even Ron looked puzzled.

“Because you’re Hermione Granger-Weasley and you never miss an opportunity to scold us or-or go on a self-righteous tirade,” George answered, his eyebrows low.

“Thanks for that,” Hermione deadpanned. “Normally you’d be correct, but I don’t really have time for this at the moment, I’m riding a rather pleasant high following my meeting with Kingsley _and_ I honestly do not believe this potion could be as _revolutionizing_ as you claim.”

George exhaled sharply and opened his mouth, but Hemrione continued.

“So, I will leave you to it then, selling this potion, the purpose of which you have hardly even _explain_ and rest peacefully tonight knowing that it probably _doesn’t do anything.”_

The tall, lanky wizard considered Hermione for a moment, head cocked to the side. “You _are_ going to rest peacefully tonight, Hermione, because I am so convinced that this,” he held up the bottle, “is the answer to so many of our societal woes, I’m going to _give_ you this one for _free_.”

“For free?” Hermione repeated.

“For free,” George smiled.

“You have never once given me _anything_ for free, not even a family discount.” Hermione looked again at the tiny bottle in his hand and shook her head. “I’m not going to take it.”

“What? But it’s free!”

“I know better than to trust you George Weasley. If it’s free then there’s a reason it’s free and that reason cannot possibly be benign.”

“You wound me, sweet Hermione,” George gasped, a hand over his heart in mockery. 

“Doubtful.”

“Indeed! I am well and truly hurt.”

“Do _not_ give me _puppy dog eyes,_ George Weasley, it is _most_ unbecoming.”

The puppy dog eyes persisted.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, give me that,” Hermione huffed, snatching the draught from George’s hand. She was instantly uneasy with the look of wicked satisfaction that bloomed across his face.

“Try it, if it’s not the most brilliant sleep you’ve ever had then I’ll give you your money back.”

  
Hermione sighed but stuffed the vile into her purse all the same, once again making note that George had _not_ told her what the Dreamful Draught actually _did._


	2. Five Nights In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you beautiful, sassy mannequins come to life and thank you for being here for the next chapter! I put a lot of pressure on myself for no reason about this story and thus wrote nothing for months. Well I’m done with that! No more pressure just writing and having fun.

_“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”_

_“I’m not particularly thrilled about this turn of events either, Granger,” Marcus growled, his face the very picture of disgruntled. Hermione briefly wondered if she had heard that Real Flint had his teeth straightened and shrunken or if his_ **_slightly_ ** _more pleasing appearance was due to the machinations of her own subconscious._

_“Can’t you just… go away?” Hermione asked, waving her hands in a shooing motion._

_Marcus inhaled deeply, his massive chest puffing, and then slowly exhaled. “If only.”_

_This was the fourth time in as many nights that Marcus Flint had showed up in her dreams and Hermione was well and truly sick of it. This was certainly not the quality rest and revolutionary sleep she had been expecting._

_“Maybe if we try walking away from each other again?” Marcus suggested, but the tone of his voice betrayed the expected futility of such attempts._

_They had tried that on Night Two. Both attempting to leave their little clearing in the woods by walking in opposite directions. The attempt had resulted in an unspecified amount of time wandering through the woods until eventually, at the same time, they had both arrived back in the Clearing. Hermione had woken up digging her hands in her hair and groaning indistinctly. They had tried again on Night Three only to be met with the same results._

_“I just really get the feeling that there’s something we need to_ **_resolve_ ** _here,” Hermione said, motioning to the two-ish meters between them._

_“Yes, you keep blathering on about lessons or whatever the fuck and it’s honestly giving me a sodding headache.” Marcus was rubbing his temples now as if to prove his point._

_“You’re a_ **_dream projection,_ ** _Flint, you can’t_ **_have_ ** _a headache,” Hermione pointed out in full swot._

_Marcus looked up, his face contorted in disgust. “For the_ **_absolute_ ** _last time, you daft witch, I am_ **_not_ ** _a sodding_ **_dream._ ** _I am Marcus sodding_ **_Flint._ ** _”_

_“I know that’s who you think you are-”_

_“Can we-” Marcus interrupted, fists clenched and eyes closed. He took another long, fortifying breath in through his nose and out through his mouth before opening his eyes. “Can we just, what did you say before, move forward_ **_pretending_ ** _I’m real for the sake of my_ **_goddamn sanity_ ** _?”_

_Hermione frowned. She gave Marcus a long look, head to the side and arms crossed over her chest. “Fine.”_

_“Thank you,” he managed through clenched jaws._

_“Perhaps acknowledging you as Real Flint is somehow part of the lesson.”_

_“Fuck my life.”_

  
  
  


oOo

 **April 30, 2009**

The cursor was blinking. And blinking. And blinking. And despite how much Hermione _stared_ at it, no sentences or phrases or even just a _word_ or two would appear. Long fingers sat poised in the air above the keyboard, nearly twitching they were so ready to type out…

_Something._

What had she been working on again? 

Hermione placed her hands on her desk and, pushing herself back, stood up with a greater sense of purpose than she actually felt. 

_I need tea or coffee or…_

_Something._

“Right,” Hermione announced to her empty office with the sort of awkwardness that one is born with, the sort of awkwardness that though one has spent years training away, comes out in these quiet moments when one is alone or when one _believes_ oneself to be alone.

“Talking to yourself again, Granger?” 

“Damnit, Malfoy,” Hermione gasped, jumping to the side in surprise. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Draco raised an eyebrow so imperceptibly that his forehead didn’t even crinkle. Hermione had to narrow her eyes to be sure she’d seen it. 

“I knocked, Granger,” the Slytherin drawled. “I wasn’t aware _knocking_ could be perceived as _sneaking up.”_

“I hate you,” Hermione remarked flatly. “Why are you here, barging into my office?”

Draco waved a folder in the air. “I just received this from the Minister’s office.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, shuffling from around her desk. “Well, what does it say, give it here!”

She reached for the folder but Draco raised it higher into the air, extending his arm to it’s full length, which was decidedly out of Hermione’s reach. 

“Malfoy!” Hermione huffed, wobbling on her toes as she attempted to elongate herself. “Hand it over!”

“We can take a look at it _together,”_ Draco began, easily sliding out of Hermione’s reach, “over lunch. That new bistro, the one with salads, I think would be an excellent choice.”

“Bugger off, Malfoy, you know I don’t eat lunch,” Hermione huffed, slipping her wand from the sleeve of her blouse. “Now hand me the folder before I’m forced to use _extreme measures.”_

Draco cocked what could only be described as a sarcastic eyebrow. “Well, I am just shaking in my dragonhide loafers, let me tell you,” the wizard drawled. 

“You’ve been warned,” Hermione said, raising her wand.

“Granger, come on!” Draco whined, voice heavy with exasperation. “One bloody lunch won’t kill you, I assure.”

“Some of us have work to do, Malfoy.”

“It’s your lunch! My lunch too, by the way, which we are _wasting_ with this useless exchange,” Draco pointed out, folder still held in the air. “So I’m going to have to _insist_ you put your big girl robes on, stop _huffing_ and join me for a very _low-key_ business lunch.”

“Absolutely not!”

oOo

_How did I end up here?_ Hermione wondered to herself, staring at her admittedly delicious salad. 

Her absolutely delicious but not at all _low-key_ salad.

She glanced around wearily for most probably the thousandth time, surveying Diagon Alley’s newest French restaurant for the bourgeoisie elite. She was fairly certain she’d spotted no less than ten members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight tucked away in the dimly lit establishment and considering how few Purebloods were left, that was quite a feet to attract so many.

“Stop looking about the place like someone’s going to hex you at any moment,” Draco said, looking up from his roast. 

“How do you know someone won’t?” Hermione asked. “You’ve brought dirty blood into this fine establishment.”

Malfoy cringed. “You won the war, Granger, anyone in here is more interested in retaining the assets the Ministry let them save than they are in archaic blood prejudice.”

Hermione wasn’t convinced. 

Just a few short years ago many of these restaurant patrons would have been itching to at best send a clandestine stinging hex at the muggleborn and at worse- well, she didn’t need to think about that. Hermione absently scratched on the hidden scar on her neck, a reminder of what “worse” could be. 

_Archaic, hmm?_

“Can we look at the Minister’s report now?” Hermione asked if not a bit petulantly. 

Malfoy’s thin lips curled into the barest of smiles which caused Hermione’s full lips to slump down at the edges.

“I don’t have it,” he said slowly, taking a calculated bite of his lunch.

The witch narrowed her amber orbs, a string of expletives that did not bare repeating at such an establishment on the tip of her razor sharp tongue.

“You _what?”_ she hissed, gripping the edge of the table as if to steady herself.

“I don’t have it,” Draco repeated nonchalantly.

“Then _why,_ pray tell are we here?” Hermione demanded, her voice rising an octave.

Draco sighed. “To _relax,_ Granger. Salazar. You’re wound so tight over this whole thing, you need to eat something.”

“I eat all the time,” Hermione spat defensively. “And I relax all the time as well. I spend my time just eating and relaxing.”

Draco stared. Hermione hates him a little more except she didn’t hate him at all, not anymore at least. 

He was right, however. Which she did hate. Who had time to eat or relax when one was a mother, a wife, best friend to the Chosen One, Brightest Witch of Her Age, while also juggling a full caseload as a solicitor?

Not Hermione Granger-Weasley. 

“You’ve lost weight,” Draco pointed out not unkindly.

“I have not,” the witch insisted.

She had. 

“You’re running yourself ragged.”

“I am not!”

She was.

“You need a moment to breathe.”

“I do not!”

She did. 

“You do,” the wizard reiterated.

“I don’t! I _need_ to see what revisions Kingsley has sent back to us and make the appropriate changes. We _need_ this case, Malfoy!”

Whatever had possessed her those months ago when Draco Malfoy of all people, had approached her about opening a non-profit advocacy group for magical creatures to say _yes_ she would never know. Maybe it was the absolute shock that _Draco Malfoy_ was _speaking_ to her about anything, let alone _advocacy_ for anyone besides himself or perhaps it was the utter sleep deprivation of new motherhood. 

Whatever it was, she deeply regretting it at that moment. 

“Granger, you’re the doll of the wizarding world, Kingsley Shacklebolt adores you as does the vast majority of wizarding Britain, there’s no way he’s going to say ‘no’ to whatever you ask of him.”

Draco continued to be right, though Hermione wouldn’t admit it. Helping defeat the Dark Lord came with an influence and fame Hermione had never grown comfortable with and was loathe to leverage. 

“I want this done because it’s the right thing, not because anyone owes me a favor,” Hermione said quietly. “There are hundreds of laws that need to be removed, we have to get this case absolutely right or it’ll take months, maybe _years_ for another opportunity to come along.”

“How do you Gryffindors even stand each other?” Draco asked seriously. “Who cares for what reason the laws are overturned, whether because it’s the _right_ thing to do or because you called in a favor, as long as it gets _done?”_

“Me. _I_ care.”

Draco Malfoy heaved a long suffering sigh. “I know, Granger. I know.”

oOo

_Hermione stared at the hulking wizard before her and screamed._

_“Why does this keep_ **_happening?”_ ** _She asked no one before tucking her legs beneath herself and falling gracefully to the grass._

_“Hell if I know.” Flint sighed. “I should just quit taking that damned potion, but Weasley wasn’t lying, I feel fucking amazing when I wake up. Best night’s rest of my life.”_

_“I know,” Hermione groaned. “It’s really quite fantastic. I can’t remember the last time I slept so well, certainly not since Rose was born.”_

_“Did you and wee Weasley reproduce?” Flint asked, cocking an eyebrow._

_“Yes, it was all over the papers.”_

_Flint shrugged. “I don’t read ‘em.”_

_Hermione considered beginning what would probably be a long winded diatribe on how he’s a dream spectre and thus can’t read anything, but she really wasn’t in the mood. This was now Night Number Five and if she was going to be stuck with her subconscious’ version of Marcus Flint for company well, she’d just have to deal with it. Honestly the sleep was worth it._

_Instead she decided to humor him._

_“Why not?”_

_“Just not a fan of reading in general and nothing the Prophet or Witch Weekly has to say has ever felt particularly relevant.”_

_“Flint,” Hermione admonished. She really couldn’t help herself. “The wizarding world is stuck in the_ **_dark ages,_ ** _the only way to get any information on the goings on of the Ministry or the world at large is through the papers.”_

_Marcus rolled his eyes before plopping down on the grass as well. “What the Ministry is or is not doing is not really of interest to me.”_

_“Hmph,” Hermione breathed. “Whatever.”_

_“That’s it?” Marcus asked, thick eyebrows traveling up his forehead. “Not going to ring my balls about it further?”_

_Hermione made a face. “Firstly, yuck. Secondly, what would be the point? Won’t make a difference either way.”_

_“I don’t know! What was the point of every bloody admonishment I received over the last five fucking nights, Granger?”_

_Hermione shrugged. “I’m kind of over it, honestly. If there is something to figure out here, I don’t care. If just dealing with you every night is what I have to pay for amazing sleep so be it, I’d rather just relax here.”_

_What she did not mention was that this or anything really, was better than the nightmares and if having to be around dream spectre Flint meant no more nightmares, Hermione could handle it._

_“Fucks sake! Why couldn’t you come to this realization five nights ago? Yes!” Marcus put his hands behind his head and fell backwards, now laying completely in the grass. “Let’s just relax in silence then!”_

_And so they did._

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Academic Elitist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you powerful muskox. Here I am with another update. I've decided to keep these updates short and sweet so I can post more often, maybe a few times a week? WE'LL SEE.

_“Flint,” Hermione began on the third night of silence, her eighth night on the Dreamful Draught._

_Marcus Flint sighed from his spot across the Clearing. “Oh gods, Granger, this has been going well, don’t ruin it.”_

_“I’m sorry.” Why was she apologizing to a figment of her dreams? “But this is-this is just so_ **_boring._ ** _”_

_“Boring is good, Granger, learn to accept boring.”_

_With a huff the witch pushed herself up off the grass to a sitting position. The sun was out, the sun was always out in this picturesque dreamscape, and the gentlest of breezes was rustling through the trees that surrounded them. Hermione had spent the first night enjoying the silence, just letting her thoughts come and go but then, as is often the case, the thoughts that began as a slow easy trickle became a torrent. You see brilliant minds do not rest and they are rarely placated and when given space to just_ **_think,_ ** _well, think they do._

_And they don’t stop. Thinking, that is._

_Hermione leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “What’ve you been up to the last few years? You graduated in what? 1995?”_

_“94.” Flint corrected, not sitting up._

_“Ah 1994, that’s right, the end of third year.” Hermione nodded, remembering. “Same year as Oliver.”_

_“Wanker.”_

_“Rude,” Hermione huffed._

_“Hold on,” Marcus said now sitting up. “Why are you asking me this? You don’t even think I’m_ **_real.”_ **

_Hermione nodded. “I don’t, no, but just because you’re a figment of my imagination doesn’t mean we can’t have a pleasant chat.”_

_Marcus scowled. “We’ve never had a pleasant chat.”_

_“We just did!” Hermione pointed out. “Even if it was in my own mind!”_

_The wizard rolled his eyes and laid back down._

_Hermione tried again. “Tell me what you’ve been up to then.”_

_“You won’t believe me anyway. You’ll just claim ‘A dream spectre can’t have a job and life, Dream Flint.’ “ Marcus’s Hermione impression was actually quite good._

**_Of course it’s good, it’s all me anyway._ **

_“Humor me.”_

_“You’re really not going to shut up, are you?” Marcus asked, almost desperately._

_Hermione smiled. “Nope. I’m quite persistent.”_

_“Ugh! Fine.” He sat up again. “Spent a few years with the Montrose Magpies, didn’t get along well with the coach, ended up with the Prides and now I’m an assistant coach with the Appleby Arrows.”_

_Hermione frowned for a moment._ **_I wonder if Ron told me that at some point? Surely my subconscious can do better than storing useless Quidditch information._ **

_“Why didn’t you get along with the coach of the Magpies?” Hermione asked, curious to see where this could go and still very much convinced her subconscious was trying to communicate something to her._

_“Oh well the old bat--wait, why the fuck do you care?” Marcus enunciated the last word in particular._

_“Tsk calling an older woman an “old bat” is quite sexist of you, Flint.”_

_“She was both old and a bat, Granger, you should’ve seen her ears, like massive hulking membranous wings.” Marcus spread out his large arms and hunched his shoulder as if to make his point. “I swear I saw her take off on them once.”_

_And Hermione, surprising herself and Marcus if the look of shock on his face was anything to go by, laughed._

_“That’s quite funny actually, Flint,” she said between giggles. “You’re quite adept at physical comedy.”_

_“Come again?”_

_“Physical comedy,” Hermione repeated. “Y’know,_ _a form of_ _comedy_ _focused on the manipulation of the body for a humorous effect.’_

_Marcus stared._

_“Using your body to make people laugh,” the witch clarified._

_“Oh well, aye,” Marcus nodded. “I’ve been told that before. I was pretty funny back at Hogwarts too, but I don’t suppose you would’ve noticed.”_

_“No,” Hermione’s voice turned icy for a moment. “It’s difficult to find the humor when you’re at the receiving end of the joke.”_

_Quite unexpectedly, Marcus glanced away from Hermione, a look crossing his features that was_ **_almost_ ** _shame._

_Almost._

**_Interesting._ **

_“Yea, bit of a bully I guess.” The admittance was more than Hermione would ever expect from Real Marcus Flint, but the witch didn’t have the energy to be cross with a dream projection._

_“All is forgiven,” Hermione said, waving her hand dismissively._

_Flint raised a large eyebrow, his muscles visibly tense. “Really?”_

_“Really really.” Hermione nodded. “Y’know for a Slytherin, you’re rather an open book. You wear your feelings right on your face.”_

_“Well if I’m just a figment of your imagination then that’s how you want me to be, isn’t it?” Marcus pointed out._

_“Oh too right!” Hermione chuckled at the idea that Marcus Flint, even if he wasn’t real, just corrected her. Maybe there was more to explore here. “You’re fairly convinced you’re Marcus Flint, then?”_

_“Oh gods, this again?” he whined. “My sanity can’t handle it, Granger.”_

_“Oh don’t get your knickers in a twist, Flint, I’m just curious about something.”_

_“Of course you are.”_

_Hermione_ _smiled in that way one does when they encounter what will be a particularly challenging arithmancy problem. Or was that just Hermione? “Do you think_ **_I’m_ ** _a dream projection?”_

_Marcus tilted his head to the side, considering the witch. “What?” he asked after a moment._

_“Well if you’re convinced you’re real-” she held up a hand before you could insist he_ **_was_ ** _real. “Then what do you think I am?”_

_Marcus didn’t respond, he simply blinked._

**_Odd. Let’s play along._ **

_“I mean, there are, I suppose, three- perhaps four distinct possibilities.”_

_“Oh Salazar, don’t list them,” Marcus groaned, shutting his eyes and rolling his head back._

_Hermione ignored his pleas. “Possibility One and what I deem to be the most likely, you_ **_are_ ** _a creation of my subconscious appearing in my dream.”_

_Marcus was still groaning indistinctly, perhaps to drown her out._

_“Possibility Two-- which is least likely--_ **_I_ ** _am a creation of_ **_your_ ** _subconscious appearing in_ **_your_ ** _dream.”_

_“Why is that the_ **_least_ ** _likely?”_

_“As Descartes wrote, Flint, cogito ergo sum.”_

_“English, Granger.”_

_“I think, therefore I am. If I can think then I must exist,” she clarified with a smirk._

_“Well, I think! I’m thinking right now that you’re being a huge swot.”_

_“Ha! True,” Hermione agreed. She really was. “But I can only confirm without a doubt my own ability to think, not yours.”_

_Marcus rolled his eyes._

_“Possibility Three, we are both in fact real and somehow our dreams are_ **_interacting._ ** _Which is more likely than you being real and me being fake, but less likely than me being real and you being fake.”_

_Marcus waited a moment before asking, “And?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“You said there were three, maybe four possibilities.”_

_“Oh yes! Possibility Four, we’re both dream spectres, but according to Descartes, at least one of us has to be real lest we devolve into radical doubt.”_

_“Wouldn’t want that,” Marcus muttered._

_“I suppose though,” Hermione continued. “That Descartes was really only entitled to say that “thinking is occurring” when you consider that his philosophy hinged on the premise that the “I” exists.”_

_“Oh gods, what?”_

_Hermione heaved a long suffering sigh. “You should really read something, Flint.”_

_“I do read, Granger,” Marcus spit out. “But just because I don’t read what you, an academic elitist, thinks is important doesn’t make me less intelligent.”_

_Hermione Granger blinked, twice, very slowly._

_“Gods, Flint, you-you’re right,” Hermione admitted, her hand going to her mouth. “I was being a, as you put it, an elitist bitch-”_

_“I didn't say ‘bitch’.”_

_“No, but I just did, because I was and I-I’m sorry,” Hermione almost whispered, unaccustomed as she was to being put in her place._

**_Stop apologizing to a dream spectre._ **

**_“_ ** _Fucks sake, Granger, don’t make a big deal of it,” Marcus said, shifting a bit uncomfortably._ ****

_“I’m not making a big deal of it,” Hermione insisted. “I just want to apologize, that’s all.”_

_Marcus eyed the witch for a moment, dark eyes narrowed. “Alright, apology accepted.”_

_“Really?” Hermione’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief._

_“Really really.” Marcus grinned, mimicking Hermione’s earlier response._

_Hermione almost reminded him he couldn’t possibly be the real Marcus Flint because the real Marcus Flint would never have forgiven a muggleborn for_ **_anything_ ** _, but she really wasn’t in the mood._

_“Well, uuh- thank you for, for accepting my apology.”_

_“Ha, shut up, Granger.”_

oOo

**May 4th, 2009**

(6:28 am) **Malfoy, are you awake?**

(6:30 am) no

(6:31 am) **I need to ask you something**.

(6:36 am) fuck, granger, this can wait until we’re in the office

(6:37 am) **Am I an academic elitist?**

(6:45 am) **Malfoy?**

(6:49 am) i’m going back to sleep

(6:52 am) **I’m being serious!**

(6:54 am) i know you are

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Lessons

**May 20th, 2009**

“You said you’d do the dishes from now on.”

“I-uhh I-”

“You stood right here in this kitchen and you said, ‘Hermione, from now on after dinner I will do the dishes while you give Rosy her bath.’ You stood right there and said it!” Hermione motioned to the spot her husband was currently occupying.

“I know I did- I know.”

“I just-” Hermione sighed, waving her wand at the sink. “Nevermind, I’ll do it.”

Ron seemed to sink even deeper into his tall frame. “I-I’m sorry, ‘Mione.” he whispered.

“I don’t want you to be sorry, Ronald,” Hermione snapped as she charmed the tap to come on and the sponge to scrub on its own accord. “I just want you to _help_ me.”

Ron opened his mouth to speak again, wringing his hands, but Hermione whirled around. 

“No, no that’s not it, it’s not _help._ You’re not _helping_ me, you’re doing your job as a father and a husband.”

“I do things! I work full-time but I still do things!” he insisted suddenly, standing up a little straighter as he did. “I-I change nappies and I take Rosy to mum’s house and-and-”

Hermione’s one single solitary clap interrupted him. “Bravo, Ronald, bravo. You do your job as a father.”

Ron’s ruddy face reddened further. 

“Do you want to know what _I_ do?” Hermione didn’t give him an opportunity to respond. “I mean, beyond the fact that I also work full-time and currently have a gigantic case load. Beyond the fact that I spent _nine months_ creating life. Beyond the fact that I _pushed a baby out of my vagina._ Do you want to know what I do?”

Ron looked down, his arms now across his chest. Hermione couldn’t stop herself now. 

“I manage the entire household, Ronald. I keep up with Rosy’s healer appointments and I plan all the meals and I buy the groceries and I keep track of _your_ appointments and worry if we’re all eating a well-rounded diet. I dust and clean and wash the floors and buy Rosy new clothes because she’s growing like a weed. I know what size nappies she’s currently in, I know what size onesies she wears. I pay all the muggle bills and manage _both_ our magical and muggle bank accounts. I plan the budget. I fix the sink. I do the laundry. And I fold the laundry. I also do the dishes and change the lightbulbs and-”

Ron whispered something inaudibly. 

“What- I’m sorry, _what?”_

“You-” he began a little louder, balling his fists with conviction. “You never told me you needed those things done.”

“I never _told you?_ I never _told you?”_ Hermione’s voice cracked. “Who the bloody hell do you think tells _me,_ Ronald?”

Ron was silent. 

oOo

_“Something’s bothering you, Granger.” It wasn’t a question._

_Hermione bit the inside of her cheek furiously and set her amber eyes to the sky. Was her body betraying her irritation or was it because Dream Flint was a product of her own mind and thus knew it all already?_

_Was he a product of her own mind?_

**_Of course he is, don’t be daft, Granger._ **

_“I’m fine,” she repeated._

_“Listen,” Marcus began. “I don’t really give a fuck why you’re in such a rotten mood, but you’re bringing down the vibe of the whole clearing which, until recently, was pretty pleasant.”_

_Hermione shot up, eyes narrow. “I’m bringing down the vibe of the whole clearing?” the witch huffed indignantly._

_“Yea, that’s literally exactly what I just said, I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”_

_“Y’know what, I_ **_am_ ** _a genius, you tosser.”_

_“Oh, such foul language-”_

_“I am a genius, I’m brilliant in fact. Would you like to know my OWL scores? Outstandings all around. Brightest witch of my age, Flint, that’s what I am.” Normally Hermione wasn’t prone to such braggadocious outbursts, but this was a dream world, who really cared?_

_“My whole time in the wizarding world you purebloods have been attempting to make me question my own worth and I’m sick of it. I don’t need it here, in my dreams as well as-”_

_“I’m not a pureblood.”_

_Hermione stopped mid tirade, arms frozen in the air as they had been gesticulating wildly. “What?”_

_“I’m not a pureblood,” the wizard reiterated slowly from where he sat in the grass, looking at her with dark eyes._

_Hermione raised one eyebrow. “The Flint’s are Sacred Twenty-Eight.”_

_Marcus reached his arms above his head, stretching. “My mum’s mum is a muggle.”_

_“You’re maternal grandmother is a_ **_muggle?_ ** _”_

_“That’s what I just said.”_

_“The Flint’s are_ **_Sacred Twenty-Eight,_ ** _” Hermione repeated this time a bit slower._

_“Are you daft, witch?” Marcus rolled his eyes. “Obviously I’m well aware.”_

_Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and straightened her back in just the way Harry would recognize immediately. Hermione was about to call someone out on their bullshite._

_“Explain to me how you could be a half-blood if your father’s family, the illustrious Flints, are Sacred Twenty-Eight.”_

_“Well to begin with, Granger,” Marcus sighed. “The Sacred Twenty-Eight was compiled what-_ **_eighty_ ** _years ago? Plenty of time for a half blood or two to be born, you might have noticed the Weasley’s are also Sacred Twenty-Eight but they’ve been marrying muggleborns and half-bloods for awhile now.”_

_“That’s different,” Hermione huffed._

_“How so?”_

_“The Weasley’s are Gryffindors, they don’t care about all that nonsense and prejudice anyway, unlike-” Hermione waved a hand at Marcus “Well, unlike Slytherins, we hold it in quite high esteem.”_

_“There are no muggleborn Slytherins that I’m aware of, but we’re not all purebloods.”_

_Hermione, thinking of a certain hooked nose professor, had to concede that point. “That may be the case, but even so-”_

_“Your blood status was never my business, Granger,” Marcus interrupted her suddenly, his expression almost tired._

_The face Hermione was making must’ve clearly communicated her disbelief as one look at it and Marcus was scowling._

_“Really?” Hermione asked._

_“Really really.”_

_“You certainly didn’t mind when your housemates were calling me ‘mudblood’ and the like.”_

_“Listen, it’s also not my business what anyone else was or was not calling you, you were a Gryffindor and right bitch back at Hogwarts. Biggest swot the school has ever seen I’d reckon.”_

**_Fair point. However-_ **

_“But-”_

_“You might recall that_ **_I_ ** _never said a word about your blood status.”_

_Hermione closed her mouth, jaw snapping shut. She thought for a moment, flipping through the album in her mind labeled ‘Shitty Hogwarts Memories’ or ‘Times My Blood Status Has Been Brought Up.’_

_Both were quite extensive._

_However, what she discovered even after going back to re-analyze a few memories, was that he was correct: Marcus Flint had never commented on her blood status._

_Her nose? Yes._

_Her hair? Yes._

_Being Harry Potter’s best friend? Yes._

_Being a swot? Yes._

_But her blood status? No._

_“You can’t think of anything, can you?” Marcus was wearing the most smug expression it caused Hermione to audibly groan._

_“Gods, no, I suppose you’re right,” the witch conceded. “I have no memories of you calling me a mudblood or even mentioning that I’m muggleborn. I do have a plethora of other_ **_unpleasant_ ** _memories, however.”_

_“Sure, I was an arse.” Marcus nodded. “But none about blood status.”_

_“None about blood status,” Hermione agreed, looking at the Quidditch player with fresh eyes._

_The better part of the last year had been a lesson on learning to see Draco Malfoy in a different light, someone who she once believed had hated her. Perhaps this was the lesson? Was she harboring so much animosity and prejudice towards Slytherins in general that she needed to work through it in her unconscious state?_

**_Yes._ **

_Yes that was it! That was the lesson._

_“No, why are you smiling, Granger?” The look of concern on Marcus’s face seemed quite out of place on his strong features, Hermione almost giggled at it. “Granger, why are you smiling?”_

_“I’ve figured it out,” she informed him triumphantly._

_“No,” he moaned, massive head in his hands. “No, no, what’ve you figured out? Gods, no, don’t tell me.”_

_“Why I’m here! Why my brain conjured_ **_you_ ** _!”_

_“Godsdamnit, you insane bint!”_

_“Excuse me,” Hermione gasped, hand over her chest._

_“I am REAL! I am the REAL Flint!”_

_“I know that’s what you-”_

_“Fuck my life. Fuck. My. Life.”_

  
  
  
  



	5. Connections

_ “Heard your sister-in-law took quite a fall last weekend.” _

_ In the last month and a half, Hermione and Marcus’s attempts to simply not talk to each other and enjoy their idyllic dreamscape had slowly faded until the two began to enjoy on easy rapport. Oddly enough, many of their conversations drifted toward Quidditch. Despite Hermione not being interested in sports almost at all, learning how to engage in discussions around the only wizarding sport had been a survival tactic. All of her in-laws as well as her best friend were absolutely crazy for it, some of them even played professionally.  _

_ Quidditch was a safe and strangely humanizing topic. Marcus could’ve been any of the Weasley’s when discussing Quidditch.  _

_ He was right, of course regarding Ginny’s accident, it had been all over the papers.  _

_ Hermione scowled, leaning back on her hands while she sat, legs crossed in front of her. “She did,” the witch agreed, her voice laced with more than a bit of malice. “I thought Harry was going to strangle McLaggen afterwards.” _

_ Marcus snorted from his spot in the grass a meter or two from Hermione. “Oh aye, heard that too.” _

_ Hermione lifted her eyebrows curiously. Seeing as Rita Skeeter had long since left the Prophet, the wizarding publications had shifted their focus from sensationalizing the actions of the Chosen One and, much to Harry’s delight, they had stopped mentioning him almost altogether. Harry Potter was old news. Even in the articles regarding Ginny’s fall--she was expected to make a full recovery-- had been surprisingly lacking any reference to her more famous husband.  _

_ Unlike muggle papers that surely would’ve read, ‘Harry Potter’s Wife Falls From Broom’ the wizarding papers actually referred to Ginny by her own name and her own merit. _

**_Ten points for the wizarding world._ ** __

_ “I’ve got a few old teammates on the Harpies,” Marcus admitted with a shrug, interpreting Hermione’s facial expression correctly. “The wizarding world is small and the Quidditch world even smaller, we all basically know each other.” _

_ Hermione nodded, conceding the point. A few moments of comfortable silence passed between the two then. At the beginning, when the pair had finally decided they might as well talk to each other if they were going to be stuck together, these lulls in conversation had been awkward at best. As time passed, however, Hermione let go of feeling obligated to fill the silence.  _

_ “I think she’ll probably retire after this season,” Hermione said thoughtfully, more to herself than Marcus.  _

_ “Oh?” the wizard asked, an edge of interest to her voice.  _

_ “Yea, I think that,” Hermione began, “it’s been hard. On her body, I mean.” _

_ Marcus nodded knowingly.  _

_ “There are rough muggle sports, I think that this sort of controlled violence is a very human endeavour, for whatever reason, but Quidditch is- the things that a person has to go through to play, it’s rather extreme.” _

_ Hermione suppressed a shudder at the memory of not only Harry’s shattered arm, but the countless injuries Ginny had sustained as a professional Chaser. She was more than a little glad her own husband had lacked both the talent and the drive to pursue Quidditch at the professional level. _

_ “I’m honestly not sure how Harry does it,” Hermione admitted, frowning. “I know that the luxury of magic has made deaths exceedingly rare and the things that wizarding healers are capable of- I mean it’s quite astounding, really, but I just can’t imagine watching someone I love so dearly risk their body in that way.” _

_ “Do you not love the wee Weasley?” Marcus quipped, flashing a good natured smile. _

_ A good natured smile. What an odd expression on Marcus Flint’s face, it altered his whole appearance.  _

_ “Of course I do!” Hermione insisted with an equally good natured huff. “But you know, it’s not the same, watching a friend versus a spouse or partner. The stakes are different.” _

_ “I don’t, actually.” _

_ “Don’t what?” _

_ “Know.” _

_ Hermione’s dark brow furrowed. “Know…?” _

_ Marcus sighed. “Keep up, Granger. I don’t know what it’s like to watch a friend versus uhh- a  _ **_partner_ ** _ play Quidditch.” _

_ “Oh,” Hermione breathed, cocking her bushy head to the side. “Never had a girlfriend -or boyfriend, I don’t judge- who plays Quidditch?” _

_ “Ha! Girlfriend. No judgement either but I don’t fancy blokes.” _

_ “So never had a girlfriend who played Quidditch? The competition too much?” Hermione ribbed. “Couldn’t stand to be bested on the pitch?” _

_ Had Marcus been good at Quidditch? Obviously he had if he was playing professionally, but that didn’t mean there weren’t many players who were better.  _

_ “Nah, it’d be pretty hot to date someone who could beat me on the pitch.” Marcus wiggled his eyebrows and Hermione mock gagged. “No,” he laughed, “no I mean I’ve never had a girlfriend.” _

_ Hermione gawked. “Marcus Flint! Never had-” At the agitated turn his mouth had taken Hermione quickly covered her surprise with a cough. Marcus didn’t seem convinced. “Never had a girlfriend?” she said calmly. _

_ Briefly it occured to the witch that she couldn’t recall ever being privy to the love life of one Marcus Flint. He wasn’t someone who frequented the papers and she certainly hadn’t been friendly with him or anyone interested in his romantic escapades. So why had the topic turned thus? _

_ Hermione had spent the first few weeks mulling over the implications these dream interactions presented. As she’d discussed with Flint previously there were four possibilities. Hermione Granger, infinitely curious and unfailingly logical, had come to the conclusion that in fact the most likely possibilities were One and Three; either Flint wasn’t real or he was.  _

_ Simple enough. _

_ She’d realized fairly quickly, however, that Marcus was not game to play along. He didn’t seem to be interested in the nature of their potentially shared dream realities as Hermione did and made it clear he wasn’t going to be open for any of her experiments. She had considered tracking the real Marcus Flint down; as he had pointed out, the wizarding world was small and there weren’t many places for anyone to hide. Hermione had gotten so far as to look up the rosters of the Appleby Arrows, finding that Flint was in fact listed as as an assistant coach but then- _

_ But then, what?  _

_ Flint made it clear he didn’t care about her Four Possibilities and, if her suspicions were correct and he wasn’t real, then what?  _

_ She could owl him and sound like a complete nutter? Clandestinely inquire about the Quidditch player from former Slytherins, such as Malfoy? Follow him around for a day and see if she could confirm- _

_ Actually she hadn’t considered trailing him, maybe she could- _

**_No, Granger, we are not stalking Marcus Flint._ **

_ Long story short, to save her own sanity, Hermione had determined to just not concern herself with the nature of Flint’s existence in her dreams. _

_ For now.  _

_ “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been with plenty of witches.” Again with the wiggling eyebrows. “But none I’d call my own.” _

_ “Can’t be tied down, eh, Flint?” Hermione teased, though she was honestly surprised he was being so candid with her. Once she’d overcome her initial suspicions born of school age prejudices, she’d found Flint to be surprisingly forthcoming and if she was being totally honest, pleasant to chat with. _

**_Now there’s a ridiculous thought. Marcus Flint, pleasant._ **

_ For a moment Marcus’s strong features clouded and something almost like pain flashed across his dark eyes. It was there for only an instant, but Hermione was nothing if not perceptive.  _

**_What’s that then?_ **

_ “Oh aye, I’ve gotta go where the wind takes me,” he chuckled, but it lacked genuine mirth.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Hermione apologized, frowning. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.” _

_ The wizard shrugged his massive shoulders. “”S’not a sore subject, it just-” he paused for a moment as if considering, until finally waving a hand in the air. “It just is what it is.” _

**_Marcus Flint the reluctant bachelor, who would’ve thought?_ **

_ “What is it exactly?” the witch asked rather boldy.  _

_ “You want to discuss my love life?” Marcus eyed her suspiciously.  _

_ Hermione shrugged noncommittally. “If you want to, you’re the one who brought it up.” _

_ Marcus stopped for a moment, seeming to consider it. “Suppose I did, yea.” _

_ “We certainly don’t have to discuss anything personal, but I’d say we’re actually in quite an appropriate setting to do so,” Hermione reasoned, considering it herself for the first time.  _

_ “How do you figure?” _

_ “Well,” she mulled over her words a bit before continuing, chewing on the idea. “Real or not, neither of us exist within the same social circle or live within the same city. Sure perhaps we have mutual acquaintances, but in many aspects we’re practically strangers,” Hermione pointed out and Marcus frowned but nodded. “So who better to confess or secrets to or seek advice from than an unbiased third party. Someone who can offer an ear without being weighed down by any friendships or past baggage.” _

_ “You don’t think we have any past baggage?” Marcus asked, his eyebrows raised.  _

_ “I mean, there’s some yes, but you and I had few interactions at Hogwarts and none after graduation. I know almost nothing about you, I didn’t even know you weren’t a pureblood and I’d wager most of what you know about me is second hand or via the papers.” _

_ Marcus did that shrug nod one does when they concede the point but still aren’t convinced of the merit of the argument.  _

_ “Listen, you certainly don’t have to tell me anything, I won’t be offended if you didn’t, but if you did, I could be helpful.” _

_ For a moment Marcus stared at Hermione, his short cropped hair unmoving in the eternally pleasant breeze. Hermione, to prove that she could, had taught herself legilimency after the war, but she didn’t need such skills to recognize that Marcus was giving in.  _

_ He nodded slowly. “Yea, I guess I can see the logic in that.” _

_ Hermione grinned widely. She grinned widely because what had started out as a genuine attempt to be congenial and offer her services as a know-it-all advice giver, had turned into something she could  _ **_use._ ** _ Thus far everything she had learned about Marcus Flint had been surface level, details she could reason that had been picked up somewhere in the last fifteen years, but if she was able to coax some truly  _ **_personal_ ** _ information from the wizard, well then she would be in a position to discern what was really going on here. She could determine if this was the real Flint or not and then from there, she would have a better understanding of what  _ **_this_ ** _ was.  _

_ “You look way too happy about this.” _

_ Hermione quickly schooled her features. “I’m just happy to be of service.” _

_ Marcus snorted. “You would’ve made a terrible snake.” _

_ “This is very interesting!” Hermione insisted and it wasn’t a complete lie. “You and I hardly know each other at all, I’m getting rare insight into the mind of a Slytherin.” _

_ At that Marcus laughed. It was a pleasant sound, a rumble that began below his diaphragm and moved up through his throat. It was a full laugh and it made Hermione smile despite herself.  _

_ “You are now one of the three Slytherin’s I speak to on a regular basis,” Hermione confided with a chuckle of her own. Three Slytherins. Perish the thought. _

_ “Three? Who are the other unfortunates?” _

_ “Ha! Hilarious,” the witch deadpanned. Marcus sniggered. “I’ll have you know it’s a very exclusive club consisting of you, Draco Malfoy, and Andromeda Tonks.” _

_ “Wooow that is exclusive,” Marcus mocked and then he frowned suddenly. “You talk to Malfoy?” _

_ Hermione nodded. She supposed it was rather odd. “He and I are business partners,” she felt the urge to clarify. _

_ “Business partners?” Marcus let out a bark, much harsher than the genuine laugh he’d gifted her moments ago. “Malfoy, never would’ve thought.” _

_ It suddenly struck Hermione, could Malfoy and Flint be friends? Do they talk? Is this perhaps another piece coming together in her plans?  _

_ “Are the two of you friendly?” she asked nonchalantly.  _

_ The wizard shook his head and Hermione suppressed a frown. _

**_Bollocks. There goes that._ **

_ “I see him around, parties and such in the ancient and noble houses, but honestly he was always a shit.” _

_ “Ha! Can’t argue with that.” _

_ “If you don’t like ‘im either then why are you, what did you say? Business partners?” Marcus asked. _

_ “Oh, it’s a long story.” _

**_Is it?_ **

_ “I have nowhere else to be.” _

_ “Well,” Hermione ran a hand through her mad chestnut curls. “It’s a bit of an odd story too, actually.” _

_ Marcus waited a moment and then signaled her to continue with a wave of his hand.  _

_ “Malfoy came to me with a business proposition. He had determined that we both had what the other was lacking.” Hermione shifted a bit, repositioning herself with legs criss crossed. “We were both, separately, having trouble with our ideas getting off the ground. I may be smart,” the witch admitted, “but unfortunately books have yet to be able to teach me how to be, well  _ **_agreeable_ ** _. Trust me, I’ve searched for them.” That earned a snort from the wizard. Hermione was adept at this sort of self-deprecating humor, it was the one thing she found about her personality that could endear her to others, though it went against her nature to be self-effacing. “Malfoy, however, despite the odds, has grown into quite a charming and charismatic man, if not a bit entitled.”  _

_ ‘ _ **_A bit entitled’ being the understatement of the year._ **

_ “Where as he has the clout of old blood and an intuitive understanding of wizarding society, I was - am I guess, a beloved war hero, if Malfoy is to be believed, with all the leverage that entails. Together we combine the most advantageous influences in wizarding society.” _

_ Or, at least, those had been the points Malfoy had presented. He was quite convincing when he needed to be. That combined with the shock of Draco Malfoy speaking to her in a civilized manner had convinced Hermione of the merit in his argument. Admittedly, they made a good team.  _

_ “Harry Potter, Viktor Krum, Draco Malfoy, do you collect influential wizards, Granger? Is there some sort of color coded notebook you keep them all in?” _

_ “I beg your pardon?” This time her huff was genuine. “Viktor Krum?” _

_ “Aren’t the two of you friendly?” _

_ “Well I mean, I suppose-” _

_ “You’re something of pen pals aren’t you?” _

_ Hermione’s amber eyes narrowed. “How would you know that?” _

_ Hermione’s correspondence with Viktor Krum had been going on since the end of fourth year. During the war their owls had dwindled and during her year on the run, nonexistent. But while she was at university the two had begun sending letters back and forth again. His was a friendship Hemrione treasured most dear, but not one she spoke of often. Ron was aware that she owled Viktor, but they didn’t discuss it. Hermione’s husband was prone to bouts of irrational jealousy.  _

_ Marcus shrugged, but his grin was sly. “Quidditch is a small world.” _

_ “Are you friends with Viktor?” Hermione asked.  _

_ “Wouldn’t call us friends. But we are cousins.” _

_ “Cousins?” Hermione sputtered. How hadn’t she known that Viktor and Flint were cousins?  _

_ “On my dad’s side. There are only so many pureblood families in England, eventually you have to start branching out if you want to keep the bloodlines from getting ahh--” _

_ “Inbred is the word, I believe,” Hermione offered, voice clipped.  _

_ “Yea, inbred,” Marcus agreed.  _

_ “So you’re cousins with Viktor?” Hermione muttered, biting the inside of her cheek as she considered this new information. _

_ “That’s what I just said.” _

_ Perhaps she wouldn’t need Malfoy after all.  _


	6. June 3rd

**June 3rd, 2009**

Now of course when Hermione awoke the next morning it dawned on her (pardon the pun) that she needed to first confirm that Marcus Flint and Viktor Krum were indeed cousins. She considered penning a letter to Viktor, but he possessed the remarkable ability to see straight through her, even via written communications. Furthermore, Hermione wasn’t quite ready to share well--

To share _Marcus._

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

She wasn’t ready to share because one, it was all a bit embarrassing either way and two, well-- married war heroes that also happen to be mothers have few secrets. Everything you are, everything you do is shared, scrutinized and analyzed. Sometimes it’s wonderful, she’d never regret having a live-in best friend to spend time with, but sometimes it was suffocating. And sometimes--

Sometimes it resulted in an all consuming loneliness. The type of loneliness one suffers when everyone knows everything about you and yet no one _knows_ you.

When you are Hermione the Mother,

Hermione the Wife,

Hermione the War Hero,

Hermione the Best Friend,

Hermione the Brightest Witch of Your Age.

You are rarely just Hermione.

Luckily one of the perks of being said war hero is getting to waltz into the Ministry and nonchalantly comb through birth and marriage records. Even with Kingsley in charge the Ministry was still woefully under protected and it only took her about half an hour of scouring to piece together that Viktor and Marcus were indeed second cousins once removed. 

As Hermione stood in that drafty, dungeonous room, wand held aloft to illuminate the parchments she had levitating around her, it struck the witch suddenly that she had no idea how she would have known that Viktor and Marcus shared a set of great-grandparents. 

Furthermore, if she had never been made privy to their familial relationship then that left only one possibility possible and if the evidence was to be believed then Marcus sodding Flint was in her dreams.

And she had no earthly idea why.

oOo 

  
  


_“Why are you staring at me like that?”_

_Hermione blinked. Considered denying that she had indeed been staring, but instead said, “I’m ready to hear about your unlucky love life.”_

_“What?” Marcus guffawed, his features twisted. “My love life isn’t unlucky, I’ve been quite-”_

_Hermione held up a hand. “Please, spare me the speech on your virility.”_

_Color crept into Marcus’s otherwise tan face and Hermione suppressed a laugh. Was ‘virility’ too much for the Slytherin?_

**_I find that hard to believe._ **

_Marcus was nearly stuttering. “Virility?” How could he make a simple word sound so crass?_

_Hermione sighed. “Yes, your prowess, so to speak.”_

_“Is this the bloody 18th century, witch?” Marcus asked, shaking his head. “My virility and my— my_ **_prowess?_ ** _”_

_“Goodness, Flint,” Hermione said suddenly, a wicked grin creeping to her full lips. “Are you really this prudish?”_

_“Oh fuck off,” Marcus growled but by now Hermione had discovered that Marcus Flint was all bark, no bite. The witch chortled at him._

_“You can’t handle the word ‘virility’?” Hermione was giggling fitfully now._

_“Listen,” the wizard snapped, crossing his arms petulantly, “I don’t give a fuck if you say bollocks, twat, ball bag, beating the bishop, growler—“_

_“Kiss your mother with that mouth?”_

_“I don’t give a single flying fuck if you use the foulest words imaginable but for the love of Salazar don’t say ‘virility’.”_

_“Okay, I’ll bite. Why can’t I say ‘virility’?” Hermione asked, hands on her hips even though she was seated._

_“Because you sound like my grandmother.”_

_“One day I’ll be someone’s grandmother. Maybe.”_

_“Gods, Granger, that’s a few years yet, yea? You don’t need to talk like you’re ninety-seven.”_

_“I just find it odd that you have no problems with profanity, but I say ‘virility’ or ‘prowess’ and suddenly you’re getting the vapors.”_

_“The vapors?”_

_“Like some sort of antebellum debutant.”_

_Marcus’s petulant scowl turned to one of confusion. “Debutant?”_

_Hermione shook her head. “I don’t have it in me to explain American muggle culture right now, not when we have your love life to discuss.”_

_“Why?”_

**_Why, indeed?_ **

_“Living vicariously I suppose,” Hermione shrugged noncommittally. “Or perhaps I’m just tired of talking about Quidditch.”_

_“We don’t have to talk about Quidditch, but we’re not going to discuss my love life,” Marcus said in a tone that brooked no argument. Or a tone that in different company would’ve brooked no argument._

_Hermione Granger-Weasley did not tolerate such tones._

_“Oh come now, Flint, don’t be shy, growing up my two best friends were blokes, I can handle it.”_

_“Salazar’s balls, you’re not going to drop this, are you?”_

_“I’m quite persistent.”_

_“I_ **_don’t_ ** _want to talk about this.”_

_“No need to be embarrassed-”_

_“I’m not embarrassed!” The wizard’s face, which hadn’t yet recovered from Hermione’s use of antiquated vocabulary, was turning somehow even redder._

_“Then what exactly is the problem?”_

_“The problem! Is! It’s-” Marcus was waving his hands in the air as if he could pluck the right words from the ether._

_Hermione grinned. “As I suspected. There is no problem.”_

_Marcus groaned._

_“Now, tell me your latest conquest.”_

_“OK!” Marcus held up his hands. “Ground rules. You are not to talk about my love life like this is the Victorian Era, we aren’t in a Jane Austen novel-”_

_“Have you read Jane Austen?”_

_“Please, talk like a normal witch.”_

_Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “I_ **_am_ ** _a normal witch, you wanker.”_

 _“Oh for fucks sake, Granger, I didn’t mean it in a weird blood purity sort of way,” Marcus sighed, massaging his forehead. “I mean that no one, regardless of blood status,_ **_talks_ ** _like this.”_

_Hermione had met Narcissa Malfoy on a few occasions thanks to Draco, both at Hogwarts and after, and she would beg to differ. However, it wasn’t worth the argument at this juncture._

_“Alright fine,” Hermione suppressed a sigh of her own. “Who have you been shagging then?”_

_“See,” Marcus grinned. “Doesn’t that just sound better?”_

_Now Hermione did roll her eyes._

_Marcus gazed down for a moment, fiddled with the edge of his black shirt where it crumpled slightly in his lap as he sat, and then looked back up at Hermione, resigned._

_“Sally-Anne Perks,” he muttered and then, “Most recently, at least.”_

_Hermione tilted her head of bushy hair to the side not unlike a cocker spaniel. She thought for a moment. Briefly she recalled a mousy bespectacled girl with the Sorting Hat sitting lopsided on her head, taking her turn before the famous Harry Potter._

_“The Hufflepuff?”_

_Marcus nodded._

_“Curiouser and curiouser.”_

_Marcus frowned. “Somehow, not the response I was expecting.”_

_“What were you expecting?”_

_“Dunno, gasps maybe?”_

_Hermione let out a dramatic gasp, hand over her chest. “Better?”_

_“Much,” Marcus chuckled, glancing down at his lap again._

_Despite evidence to the contrary there was a very loud part of Hermione’s brain that screamed this couldn’t be real. Look at him. Look at Marcus Flint embarrassed and even maybe a bit shy? This was not the troll-faced snake she had known at Hogwarts. It couldn’t possibly be. Surely that Marcus Flint would jump at the opportunity to regale anyone with tales of his conquests. Surely he wouldn’t be this hulking, massive wizard before her turning pink at the mere mention of his sex life._

_Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. She’d been accused of many sins in her life, pride and judgement at the top. Was she falling prey to both now?_

_“Though,” she began, changing the subject or at least, the subject in her own mind. “If I’m to play the part of the shocked friend, as the director you should probably let me in on where this sense of shock is coming from.”_

_Marcus looked up with just his eyes, head still titled down, and gazed at Hermione through his dark eyelashes and for a moment the witch was struck by the sight of him. He was a handsome man, all sun kissed skin over layers of well maintained muscle. That first night she’d thought the muscles were a bit much but no, they were just enough. Any smaller and surely he wouldn’t look like himself._

_Marcus Flint wasn’t handsome in the Draco Malfoy way, with charm and aristocracy, or even the Ron Weasley way, with goofy grins and welcoming smiles. Marcus Flint was handsome in the he looked like he would beat the ever loving shite out of anyone who may call you a ‘mudblood’ sort of way._

**_What the hell is wrong with Sally-Anne Perks? Someone needs to lock that down._ **

_Looks aren't everything, certainly. But Marcus is gainfully employed, interesting enough to talk to, easy on the eyes, and had somehow managed to steer clear of falling in with any Death Eaters in years passed. There had to be at least half a dozen witches eyeing the wizard, Hermione reasoned, which only made the witch strangely protective. In a completely maternal sort of way, of course._

**_Oh no, I’m becoming Molly Weasley_ **

_“What?” Hermione asked, suddenly realizing Marcus had spoken._

_“Friends,” the wizard repeated, “you called us friends.”_

_Hermione considered for a moment. Had she? Technically she’d said she was_ **_playing_ ** _the part of the shocked friend, but why argue semantics? “Suppose I did, yea,” she shrugged. “Are we not?”_

_Marcus grinned, the action changing his entire face to something altogether pleasant. “If I’m going to wax poetic about my sexual exploits then yea, reckon we must be.”_

_And Hermione matched his grin._

oOo

_моята английска роза,_

_It was wonderful to receive your letter, it’s been a few months and I worried you’d forgotten me, but I know having your little mila running around keeps your hands too busy to write. The weather is beautiful right now, I’m sure you remember how pleasant Bulgaria is in June. My mother is in good spirits despite her health, it was kind of you to ask after her._

_I have to admit, I’m shocked you’re asking me for my Quidditch schedule! Every game you’ve ever come to has been, how do you say? Like pulling teeth. Have you had a change of heart? I doubt it. Are you just desperate to see me? My rose, you know you could portkey over for a visit anytime, bring your husband and daughter for a holiday. No, I think there are ulterior motives here I am not being made privy to. But who am I to understand the workings of the mind of the Brightest Witch of Her Age?_

_I will be playing the Arrows August 16th in Appleby. Hopefully you won't mind, I’ve already taken the liberty of reserving you and your husband tickets to the executive box._

_Maybe then you’ll tell me why the sudden interest in this season’s schedule?_

_Yours always,_

_Viktor_

Hermione frowned, dark forehead wrinkling. Viktor always could see through her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, here's my problem. I love everyone with Hermione.


	7. The Club

**June 12th, 2009**

(6:15pm) I can’t go out tonight 

**(6:17pm) Hermione**

**(6:17pm) I’m going to murder you**

**(6:17pm) They’ll never find the body**

**(6:19pm) You’re going out with us**

(6:21pm) I’m too tired and I have too much work to do on this case

**(6:21pm) I’m coming over in two hours, you better be dressed**

**(6:23pm) Actually**

**(6:23pm) Don’t get dressed**

**(6:23pm) I’m coming over in an hour and I’m bringing clothes**

(6:24pm) We’re not the same size, Ginny

(6:24pm) And it doesn’t matter because I have too much to do

**(6:25pm) An HOUR, Hermione**

“Hermione,” Ginny announced, holding two dresses that were far too small for Hermione in either hand. “I need this, alright?  _ We  _ need this! Our babies are old enough, our husbands are  _ capable.  _ We are going out.”

Hermione backed away from her friend who had just popped through the Floo. “I just- I need-”

“You need to get out!” Ginny continued to insist, shaking the dresses now. 

“I do get out!”

“The office doesn’t count!”

For that Hermione had no rebuttal.

“Do it for me, Hermy,” Ginny said, suddenly changing tactics. 

“Ginny Potter, do  **not** give me puppy dog eyes!” Hermione snapped. “And don’t call me that  _ awful  _ nickname.”

_ How can they all do these goddamn puppy dog eyes?! It is in their DNA? Damn Weasley genetics. _

Rose had inherited it as well. 

“You want to go out, Hermione, you’re basically screaming out for it, I see it in your eyes.”

“That’s not what my eyes are screaming,” Hermione deadpanned. 

“If you didn’t want to go out you would’ve locked the Floo,” Ginny pointed out. 

“Wouldn’t have mattered, you can get through the wards.”

“Could’ve changed the wards.”

Hermione heaved a deep long suffering sigh. “I am long passed the point of thinking I can keep any of the Weasley clan out of my house, Ginny.”

“Damn straight.”

“But I am still  **not** going out tonight.”

However, much like how a wolf can sense weakness in the herd, Ginny Potter could sense Hermione’s cracking resolve. 

“But-”

“No, I don’t want-”

“Please, Hermione, please please please please please-”

And then she cracked.

“FINE!” Hermione yelled, rubbing her temples. “Fine. Fine I’ll bloody go out with you and Luna.”

“Eeeeee!” Ginny shrieked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“But I’m going to be home by ten!”

Ginny opened her mouth as if to protest, but then seemed to think better of it. “Alright, home by 10pm, got it, Mom.”

Hermione shot her friend a glare, Ginny simply grinned. 

“Let’s get you ready.” Ginny rushed past Hermione who was already regretting this.

oOo

Hermione was not one for alcohol. She had completely given it up while pregnant and breastfeeding and even now wasn’t much interested. Hermione Granger-Weasley enjoyed control and the appeal of intoxication, as she understood it, was to  _ lose  _ control. So suffice it to say Hermione and alcohol didn’t much get along.

Which led to Hermione’s current predicament of being stuck in a club, nursing a glass of ice water, while her two best girl friends were, as the muggles say, laying it all out on the dance floor. 

Hermione was not a dancer. She wasn’t one to get dressed up. She was not one to go out. She was not one to wear make-up.

When the occasion called for it, an important meeting or a wedding, Hermione could be fancy. She knew how to contour, she knew what colors look best with her skin and which cuts were the most flattering on her figure. She could walk in heels and she knew how to waltz. 

But this- this!

This was crowded

And sweaty.

And  _ loud.  _

And Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ were those wizards staring at her. 

Hermione suddenly realized that she was a woman sitting alone at a club. A terrible situation to be in if one doesn’t want to socialize with the opposite gender. 

_ Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Ginny. Fuck Luna. Do not come over here! _

One of the wizards in said group, a brunette who Hermione felt she vaguely remembered as being a year or two ahead of her at Hogwarts, maybe a Hufflepuff, made eye contact and smiled. 

_ Oh no. Oh fuck no.  _ Hermione quickly turned away, but apparently said wizard was interrupting Hermione’s obvious disinterest as being coy because he suddenly stepped away from his group of blokes and began winding through patrons towards Hermione’s table. 

_ What should I say? Tell him you’re married. No. He’ll think you’re lying anyway. Glare, just glare at him! _

Hermione was glaring but that didn’t seem to be working. 

_ He’s too drunk. He’s not understanding the glare. You’re supposed to be a genius, Hermione! Think of something. _

He was getting closer. Desperately she scanned the dance floor for her friends, attempting to make eye contact with one of them. Both were too absorbed in their dancing to notice their friend attempting to get their attention.

“Ginny!” Hermione shrieked, but over the blare of the music and the tens of conversations happening around them, no one heard Hermione’s pleas. 

_ Oh fuck me, I’m going to have to awkwardly talk to this arsehole and tell him I’m not interested. Maybe I’m being vain, maybe he’s not coming over here. _

He was definitely headed straight for her. 

And just as Hermione had determined to cast a hex on herself that would make her bleed from her own eyes in the hopes that maybe the wizard would run off in terror, someone intervened. 

“Evening, Granger,” Draco Malfoy smiled, sliding into the chair that the hoping-to-score-tonight wizard was headed towards. Hermione had never been so grateful to see that saccharine grin. 

“Malfoy!” Hermione exclaimed, choosing to ignore the fact that he had used the wrong surname for her. That was an old argument, apparently Granger-Weasley was too much to say. “What’re you doing here?”

“Saving you from what could only have been an abysmal conversation,” Draco said, taking a sip from his glass in hand. Hermione assumed the amber liquid inside was firewhisky, but she was no expert. 

“My saviour,” she thanked him and then clandestinely watched as the wizard stalked off, a bit of a slump to his shoulders. 

“What?” Draco asked, scooting his chair closer.

“I said,” Hermione began, leaning in towards Draco’s ear, “thank you!”

“Salazar, is anyone recording this?” Draco looked about. “Hermione Granger just thanked me, this should be memorialized!”

Hermione swatted Draco’s arm good-naturedly. “I thank you all the time!”

“Do you?” Draco grinned, taking another sip from his drink. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the pink flush of his cheeks. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!” Hermione declared in mock condemnation. “You are drunk!”

Draco flashed her such a charming grin she almost gagged. “Not quite there yet, but certainly on my way.”

“Are you here with anyone?” Hermione asked, looking around. Draco didn’t seem like the type to be drinking alone at a club, but then again, isn’t that how people pulled themselves a one night stand?

_ Fuck, we do sound like someone’s grandmother.  _

“Nah, I’m with Blaise, but he found himself a conquest and indicated that I needed to make myself scarce.”

“Ha! Other people  _ do  _ say ‘conquest’!” Hermione took a sip of her water. “Wanker.”

Draco raised a blond eyebrow. 

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. “I was recently informed no one says words like ‘conquest’ or ‘virility’. However, as  _ you  _ just referred to Blaise’s conquests, apparently  _ I  _ am not quite as antiquated as I’ve been accused of being.”

“To be fair it is a bit antiquated,” Draco chuckled. “I was raised by Narcissa Malfoy, however, what’s your excuse?”

“More books than friends growing up?” Hermione offered with a shrug.

“Ha! Probably. You were pretty damn insufferable.”

“ _ I  _ was insufferable?” Hermione gawked. “This coming from Prince My Father Will Hear of This!”

“Oh, prince, I do like the sound of that,” Draco mused. “King would be better though.”

“Godric’s sake,” Hermione muttered, taking another drink of her water.

Draco narrowed his eyes suddenly. “Granger, are you drinking  _ water?  _ At a club?”

“Yes,” she responded, unperturbed. “It’s quite refreshing, would you like a sip?”

“Would I like a sip- Granger! Why are you even out right now?” He glanced down at her stomach. “You’re not pregnant again are you?”

“Fuck no!” Hermione spit out a little water. She placed her glass on the table and wiped her chin with the tiny napkin bartenders give you with your drink, even if your drink isn’t alcoholic. “Godric that would be  _ awful.” _

“That bad, is it?” Draco laughed.

“Would not recommend pregnancy.”

Draco snorted into his drink. “Noted.

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to dutifully explain the many downsides of pregnancy while also cataloging the many joys of parenthood so that eventually, if he were so inclined, Draco and his one day wife could make an informed decision when very suddenly her words were cut off before they began by cold water-  _ her  _ cold and refreshing water- being dumped all over her.

She stood up, gasping, with her arms wide the way one does when they’ve suddenly been accosted by liquid. 

“Slag!” a voice to her left yelled and Hermione whirled around to stare into the eyes of- someone? 

“Who the fuck are you?” was about the only thing Hermione could get out.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to Ron!” Hermione still had no idea who this small, blonde witch in a silver dress was.

The club had continued on, two witches having an altercation apparently not warranting anyone’s close attention, except that Draco had his wand out and suddenly Ginny and Luna were by Hermione’s side. Ginny looked about ready to punch the drink throwing witch, as was the Weasley way, but Hermione put out a soaked arm to stop her. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione began, her voice deadly calm. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Hermione Granger-Weasley and you are?”

For a brief moment the witch looked taken aback, obviously not expecting a formal introduction. “I know who you are!” she said after a moment. “You’re Ron Weasley’s wife!”

“Yes, indeed I am,” Hermione agreed, nodding. “I assume, seeing as you’ve mentioned him twice, the fact that I am now wearing my drink is somehow relevant to my marriage situation.” Hermione took a step forward, closing the short distance between herself and the witch. “Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

The witch took an unsteady step back, eyeing Hermione nervously, the bravery gifted to her by that night’s drinks suddenly failing. “You-you’re married to a war-hero! But here you are with-with a-a  _ Death Eater,”  _ the witch hissed the last word as if it were the most vile of curses and to be fair, it rather was, but Draco Malfoy was Hermione’s pompous, pureblood arsehole and  _ no one  _ was going to speak about him that way. 

Another witch, this one in a black leather miniskirt rushed over suddenly, grabbing the arm of the witch in the silver dress. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” she said profusely to Hermione, pulling her friend’s arm. “We’re leaving!” To her friends she hissed, “Are you fucking  _ mad?” _

“I’m not mad!” the drunk witch shrieked. “She’s the one talking to a-an arsehole! To Death Eater scum!”

There was that word again. 

“The war is over, sweetheart,” Hermione smiled viciously. “Ten years over in fact and you’re right, I’m married to a war hero, but in case you have forgotten  _ I  _ am myself a war hero.”

“ _ You?”  _ the witch all but spat. “I’ve read about you! ”

_ Read about me? Fucking Rita Skeeter. I should’ve kept her in that jar. _

“You’re nothing but a big arsed slag!”

_ Big arse? _

The witch in the miniskirt gasped and attempted to pull her friend away again, but the witch in the silver dress wrestled her arm free.

“Must be the blibbering humdingers in the air tonight,” Hermione heard Luna whisper to Ginny. “They’ve got everyone out of sorts.”

_ Blibbering humdingers, indeed.  _

“Oh goodness,” Hermione chortled. “What an absolutely plebeian insult. Big arsed slag. Would you like me to give you a few moments? You can try again.”

The witch gaped, her pale face turning red. 

“I mean really,” Hermione took another step, “how long have you been watching my friend and I speak? At least five minutes, I’d imagine, and that’s the  _ best  _ you could come up with? Big arsed slag.”

_ We should let this go, Hermione, she’s obviously drunk.  _ And if this stranger had kept her insults focused on Hermione alone, this probably would’ve ended much quicker, but nothing brought out Hermione’s viciousness like when someone attacked her friend.

“You-you-” the witch stammered.

Hermione’s eyes widened comically. “Oh, have you thought of something better? More clever or cutting? Come on now, give it a try!” Hermione made a clicking sound with her tongue and turned to Ginny. “Poor lamb, she just can’t think of anything.”

“You bitch!”

Hermione’s magic reacted to the curse before it was even spoken aloud. A simple pus-squirting hex, sloppily cast in the witch’s inebriation, came hurtling at her, but Hermione was war trained. 

Hermione had fought far more powerful, more dangerous, more  _ sober  _ opponents and she was, after all, the Brightest Witch of Her Age. 

The pus-squirting hex bounced off Hermione's  _ protego  _ like it was nothing, a fly swatted away by a lioness, and it was every ounce of self-control the witch possessed to not cast her  _ own  _ curses in return. Instead Hermione stepped towards the wide-eyed interloper until their noses almost touched.

“You should go,” Hermione said slowly.

“We’re sorry, we’re so sorry!” The witch in a blue dress grabbed her friend, pulling her away quickly. 

But the other witch managed to get out, “Slag!” one last time before disappearing into the crowd.

“Granger,” Draco said practically beaming, “you would’ve made a fabulous Slytherin.”

Hermione whirled around to face Ginny. “It’s 10:05,” she said, holding up her phone screen. Luckily she’d charmed it thoroughly against water and sudden impacts so it was working perfectly. 

Ginny sighed.

oOo

_ “All I’m saying is if I’d known we were going to be trekking through the woods I would’ve worn different shoes.” Marcus sighed besides her.  _

_ “Quit whining. Besides you can’t wear shoes,” Hermione pointed out, pushing the low hanging branches of an ash tree aside and then holding it back for Marcus. He bowed chivalrously and Hermione gifted him a lopsided grin. “And it wouldn’t make a difference either way, since no matter what we step on it all feels as pleasant as the grass from our clearing.” _

_ Everything in the dreamscape seemed pleasant. It was rather disconcerting at times.  _

_ “I know, weird that is,” the wizard muttered. _

_ “Everything about this place is weird and I plan on figuring out what’s going on.” _

_ “By forcing me to hike through the woods.” _

_ “I told you, last time we tried to leave the clearing we did so separately and we ended up back in the clearing, maybe if we try going together-” _

_ “Nothing is wrong with my hearing, Granger,” Marcus interrupted her, I heard you just fine the first time around. _

_ “Then quit whining- ack!” Hermione cried out as a branch got tangled in her hair, pulling at her curls painfully. “Ugh!” She reached up to dislodge herself herself, but seemed to only be making it worse.  _

_ Marcus chuckled, pushing Hermione’s hands away. “Salazar, Granger, it’s like your hair attracts things.” Carefully he worked to untangle Hermione from the clutches of the tree. _

_ “Listen,” the witch huffed, whipping around to face him once she was free, said unruly curls slapping against her cheeks form the motion. “Usually I tie my hair back in a bun, but as the dreamland has afforded me nothing to do that with, we’re all stuck with-” Hermione waved a hand around her hair, “this!” _

_ Marcus laughed as he tossed a few leaves he’d picked from her man aside. Hermione made an annoyed clicking sound and turned back towards the next tree branch impeding her progress.  _

_ “I like it,” Marcus commented quietly. _

_ “What was that?” Hermione asked, glancing over her shoulder. _

_ “Your hair,” Marcus clarified. “I like it.” _

_ “Oh.” Hermione reached a hand into her chestnut locks, absently pushing a few wayward ringlets from her face. “Err- thanks.” She kept walking, ignoring the odd little surge of  _ **_something_ ** _ that was winding its way through her muscles.  _

**_Obviously he’s lying. No one likes my hair._ **

_ Compliments on Hermione’s hair were few and far between. _

_ Hermione, you’re brilliant.  _

_ Hermione, you’re so smart!  _

_ Clever, that’s our Hermione! _

_ “Thanks?” Marcus asked, ducking under a branch Hermione was too short to notice. “That’s it?” _

_ “What exactly were you looking for, Flint?” Hermione asked. “Did you expect me to fall all over myself at a compliment?”  _

_ “Salazar no, I wouldn’t expect you to fall all over yourself for anything.” _

_ “Good.” _

_ “However, if I had said something about your intelligence, you would not’ve thanked me, y’know,” Marcus commented. Hermione furrowed her brow. What was he getting at? “You would’ve said something incredibly pompous and condescending-” _

_ “I thought we were friends.” _

_ “Friends are honest.” _

_ Hermione sighed. He wasn't wrong. _

_ “As I was saying,” the wizard continued, “you would’ve said something pompous and condescending like, ‘Of  _ **_course_ ** _ it was a good idea, Flint, if you had read The History of Magic just once then maybe  _ **_you_ ** _ would’ve also realized that in 1647-” _

_ “I get it,” Hermione growled, though she had to admit his impressions were quite good. “What’s your point then?” _

_ “My point is, Granger, if I compliment your intelligence you don’t even accept the compliment, your self-assurance in your own swottiness is so strong. It would be like me saying, ‘Oh the sky is blue.’ To you it’s just a fact of nature,” Marcus pointed out, smiling like he was the cleverest arsehole in the world. “But one little compliment about your hair and suddenly you’re an awkward thirteen year old again.” _

_ “An awkward-“ She rounded on him. “I am not an awkward- ugh, y’know what, whatever. So what?”  _

_ Hermione has been in a foul mood since apparating home from the club and she was desperately attempting to not take it out on Marcus. Failing miserably, but attempting nonetheless. She was hoping exploring the edge of the dreamscape could be a distraction, which was proving fruitless.  _

_ “So!” Marcus declared, one finger pointing in the air. “So you don’t like your hair, do you?” _

_ The witch stopped and turned to face Marcus, a scowl painted across her features.  _

_ “I like my hair just fine,” Hermione said slowly, putting particular emphasis on the last word.  _

_ Marcus, who absolutely towered over Hermione, regarded the witch, looking her up and down and when his eyes made their way back up to her face, the witch was still scowling.  _

_ “You don’t like the way you look, do you?” he asked with a gentleness that made Hermione livid. _

_ Because Marcus was absolutely right.  _

_ “The way that I look is irrelevant to any of my pursuits in life,” Hermione said defensively, whirling around to continue walking.  _

_ “Whoa, hey!” Marcus grabbed Hermione’s elbow, his grip was strong but lacked conviction; Hermione shook him off. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” _

_ “I am not upset!”  _

_ Both of Marcus’s dark eyebrows migrated up his forehead. “This is how a not upset person behaves?” _

_ Her anger was irrational. It was also not Marcus’s fault. She was being unfair. She was being defensive. She had spent her entire nighttime skincare routine staring at her arse in the mirror, wondering if it was big and so no, Marcus Flint, she wasn’t particularly thrilled about how she looked.  _

_ “Does your forehead always pulse like that when you’re angry?” Marcus asked, staring between Hermione’s eyes.  _

_ “I’m going to murder you out here and no one will ever know.” _

_ “If you could use magic, maybe. But as it is, you’re a bit out classed, Granger,” Marcus pointed out, struggling to keep from grinning.  _

**_He’s laughing! This wanker is laughing at me. I’m done. I’M DONE._ **

_ “How much do you weigh?”  _

_ The witch stopped again, mouth hanging open. “How-how much do I  _ **_weigh_ ** _?” Hermione nearly shrieked. _

**_Oh gods, how big IS my arse?_ **

_ “That’s what I asked you.” Marcus tilted his head. “Nine and a half stone, maybe ten?” _

_ “Nine and half?!” Hermione’s hands curled into fists by her side. “No I don’t weigh nine and a half bloody stone and even if I did it’s none of your bloody business!” _

_ “This is a very odd thing for you to get so worked up about, Granger.” _

_ “I AM NOT WORKED UP.” _

_ “I thought the way you looked was irrelevant-” _

_ And then it happened. With an absolutely inhuman shriek, Hermione launched herself into the air towards the wizard, wrapping her limbs around him like a spider monkey.  _

_ “WHAT THE FUCK!” Marcus screamed. Under normal circumstances Marcus, who was at least sixteen stone, would’ve let the much smaller witch comically bounce off him, however taken aback as he was by her suddenly going feral, Marcus found himself laying on his back on the floor of the woods with an enraged witch straddling him. _

_ “I’m going to murder you, Marcus Flint! You absolute fucking prat!” Hermione punched the wizard in the shoulder but she was sure he barely felt it. _

_ “Granger-” _

_ “Why the fuck are you commenting on my weight? What a fucking arsehole thing to do!” She punched his shoulder again.  _

_ “Granger-” _

_ “I just had a fucking  _ **_baby!_ ** _ Do you know what that does to a person's body!” _

_ “Granger-” _

_ “My arse NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN!” _

_ “GRANGER!” Marcus easily grabbed Hermione’s wrist which gave her the distinct impression all the punches she had gotten in had been totally at Marcus’s pleasure. She was further enraged.  _

_ “WHAT!?” _

_ “Do you feel better now?” he asked, grinning up at her.  _

_ Hermione’s chest rose and fell in heavy breaths and her hair fell around her face like a veil on either side.  _

**_I need to work out more._ **

_ “Do I feel better?” she nearly stammered. “Well-I-” _

_ Actually, that was rather therapeutic.  _

_ Amber eyes met twinkling chocolate brown and the witch gasped. “You riled me up on purpose!” she exclaimed.  _

_ Marcus’s grin widened. “You’ve been acting pretty wound up, seemed like you needed to get things off your chest.” _

_ “So you goaded me into attacking you?” _

_ “To be fair, I didn’t expect to be jumped and then repeatedly punched.” _

_ “Oh you’re fine, I wasn’t even punching hard.” _

_ “I don’t remember you being this violent at Hogwarts-” _

_ “I punched Malfoy in the face.” _

_ Marcus gave her throaty laugh, full of mirth. “Gods I forgot about that, must’ve been brilliant to see.” _

_ Hermione’s lips curled into the ghost of a smile. Current friendship aside, Malfoy had deserved it back then.  _

_ While remembering the look of absolute terror on Draco Malfoy’s face when she had come at him, Hermione shifted and suddenly realized exactly what she was sitting on. _

_ “Oh gods!” she cried, jumping off of Marcus.  _

_ Marcus turned an unnatural shade of red. _

_ “Listen, Granger,” Marcus began, scrambling to his feet. He had his hands up like a circus performer taming a lion. “I’m sorry! I haven’t had a witch on top of me in a long time and you were punching me and-” _

_ “I thought you were sleeping with Sally-Anne Perks!” _

_ “That was last year!” _

_ “You haven’t had sex since last year!?” _

_ Marcus groaned. “Salazar, don’t say it like  _ **_that.”_ **

_ “You’re right, okay.” Hermione scrubbed her face with her hands and  _ **_refused_ ** _ to look at Marcus’s crouch. “It’s alright! I grew up with a lot of boys, I understand these things happen even in the most platonic of situations.” She placed her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders. “All is well, water under the bridge.” _

_ “Yes, yea, uh- of course,” Marcus agreed, nodding vigorously. “Totally platonic.” _

_ “Totally.” Hermione looked at the ground, the tree, anywhere but Marcus, and then groaned, her shoulders slumping.  _

_ “What, what is it?” Marcus asked, following Hermione’s gaze. _

_ “We’re back at the fucking clearing.”  _


	8. June 15th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you perfect little sunflowers! I've been sitting on this chapter, I re-wrote parts of it a few times and got really frustrated. Decided to say, fuck it! And post it. Just a reminder I have no beta and my degree is in fine arts, not English. Shine on, lovelies.

**June 15th, 2009**

**(7:00am) Don’t pick up a paper**

**(7:00am) Who am I kidding, you hate the papers**

**(7:00am) Hermy**

**(7:01am) DO NOT PICK UP THE PROPHET**

**(7:10am) You already did, didn’t you**

**(8:12am) Skeeter, is a bottom dweller**

**(8:12am) Pay her no mind**

**(8:15am) Granger**

**(8:15am) Bottom.**

**(8:15am) Dweller,**

**(8:32am) Are you not coming in today?**

**(8:32am) You don’t have to come in**

**(8:33am) I’m just wondering**

Hermione almost made it to the office. 

Normally she would’ve apparated straight there, the wards were custom designed by both herself and Draco to allow only the two of them access, but she was in pleasant spirits and had decided, since things were going well with the latest case with the Ministry, she deserved a treat. She stopped by the little bakery across the street from their office, intent on getting herself a sencha green tea and Draco a coffee, black with two sugars, when _it_ had caught her eye.

Hermione gasped, nearly dropping her bag, as the headline knocked the wind from her lungs with all the force of a stray bludger.

WIFE OF RONALD WEASLEY AND BEST FRIEND TO THE CHOSEN ONE SEEN ON SECRET DATE WITH MALFOY HEIR

“For the love of all that is holy!” Hermione snarled, lip curled feraly, and pulled her wand from where it was pinning the loose bun to her head. 

Her hair cascaded around her in a wild fury, free if its encasement, while her right hand raised. 

Hermione Granger was a vision of fury. 

“ _INCENDIO!”_

And all the papers caught fire. 

The barista and bakery patrons stared in horror. One, a portly wizard with thick eyebrows, was caught with his mouth so agape that a piece of croissant slipped from his pale lips.

The cafe was in such a quiet state of shock that Hermione, and most probably everyone else, heard the wayward croissant plop to the tiled floor. 

The witch in question twisted her wand back into her hair. “I’ll pay for those,” she said before dousing the flames and then, her nerve suddenly failing, promptly rushing out the door. 

oOo

(9:03am) Sawthepapers

(9:03am) Itscompletelystupid

(9:05am) Didyoutakethedayoff?

(9:05am) Youshould

(11:35am) Imworkinglatetonight

(11:35am) Justrelaxathome

(11:41am) Iloveyou

**(1:24pm) Rita Skeeter, out of retirement for this bloody shite**

**(1:26pm) I’ll talk to my contacts in the Prophet about this**

**(1:26pm) Heads will roll**

**(1:27pm) And you know I’m not joking**

**(5:56pm) Hey you don’t have to respond to my texts**

**(5:56pm) Just**

**(5:57pm) Answer me when you’re ready**

**(7:12pm) Obviously Weasley must know we’re not having some sort of affair**

**(7:12pm) Obviously**

**(7:15pm) I’ll have someone handle this**

**(7:25m) See you tomorrow?**

Hermione looked down at her phone and then tossed it onto the nightstand besides her. Ron was working late at the store, Rose was tucked into her crib and Hermione was alone in bed imagining all the things she would do to Rita bloody Skeeter if she ever saw the vile woman again.

Being trapped in a jar would be the _least_ of her worries.

_She’ll be begging for that jar._

The witch took another sip of her wine, though as discussed she was not much of a drinker, the nondescript red blend was a welcome reprieve from the flurry of anxiety that was sloshing about in her stomach. 

Hermione had been down this road before.

Ron was a media darling and even Harry these days was painted like the hero he was, but Hermione was always- _always_ the Jezebel _._

One third of the illustrious Golden Trio. Heroine in her own right. Brightest witch of her age. 

It meant nothing to the tabloids. 

_I wonder how long Molly will refuse my owls this time._

Hermione took another sip of her drink. 

oOo

_Another scream split the air. Marcus wiped the rain, coming down in sheets and clouding his vision, from his eyes to no avail._

_“Granger!” he cried again. The clearing they had shared every night for weeks now was empty or, at least, he was pretty bloody sure it was empty as he could barely see a foot in front of him. “Where are you?”_

_She screamed again, a wordless terror._

_No, she was not in the clearing._

_His body stiffened from the sound, urging him to action, but where was she? Her scream was so tortured he was genuinely terrified. Could someone be injured in a dream? Maybe? Granger would know, she would know if someone could get injured in a dream, but currently Marcus_ **_couldn’t fucking find her._ **

_The wizard closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He exhaled for two heart beats longer than the inhale, focusing on the sound of Granger’s voice._

_To his left. The screams were coming to his left._

_Marcus ran, his arms cast before him blindly, pushing away tree branches and soaked leaves. “Granger! Granger, where are you?” he continued to yell and was answered only by her scream._

_Marcus was not a Gryffindor, he was not a wizard with a penchant for recklessness nor did he put much stock in bravery over self-preservation. However, he was also no coward and, as a rather intimidating man, had found himself afraid, truly afraid, only a handful of times in his life._

_He was afraid the first time he fell from his broom, bones shattering._

_He was afraid the morning his mother collapsed in the dining room._

_And he was afraid now, running through the woods, wayward branches scratching the skin of his face, his arms, his hands. He was bloody_ **_terrified._ **

_Adrenaline spurred him on, her screams were growing louder. He had to be getting closer._

_He had to._

_And then there were no screams and somehow the dread that had replaced the blood in Marcus’s veins turned to ice._

_It was so much_ **_less_ ** _terrifying when she had been screaming._

_Why had she stopped?_

_“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeated desperately. For a moment Marcus attempted to convince himself that this was just a dream and everything was fine, but Marcus Flint was a wizard and he might’ve had to repeat his seventh year, but he wasn’t quite the idiot everyone expected. Marcus Flint had known that first night what Hermione was still barely convinced of; this was real._

_This was real._

_He had stopped running, stopped moving, stopped_ **_breathing._ ** _He didn’t know which way to go. “Granger!”_

_There was no screaming, but the forest was far from silent. The rain pounded the ground with unrelenting violence and within his chest, Marcus’s heart thudded with equal intensity, filling his ears with the sound. He called her name once more, feeling his throat strain from the effort of it. That pulling of muscles, almost making him cough, was the most discomfort he had felt in this previously pleasing dreamworld._

_He had never been too hot nor too cold, he’d never stubbed his toe or stepped on a rock. A branch had never scratched his cheek or his arm._ **_Nothing_ ** _in these dreams had ever been_ **_unpleasant._ **

_Until now._

_Marcus was finding this pretty sodding unpleasant._

_He yelled her name again and again and again until his throat strained and his voice cracked and then he yelled, “HERMIONE!”_

_He’d never said her first name. Not to her. Not in conversation. It was_ **_always_ ** _Granger._

_Until now._

_For a heart beat’s time nothing happened and then-_

_And then she screamed._

_And Marcus ran._

_Pushed forward by purpose, by terror, by the dawning realization that yes, he and Hermione Granger_ **_were_ ** _friends and say what you want about Slytherins, but Hufflepuffs don’t have a monopoly on loyalty._

_As he ran he called her name, her_ **_first_ ** _name, and she in turn continued screaming and as her screams grew louder, a clear indication that he was getting closer, they morphed from wordless into horrifying._

_She was begging for help._

_A low hanging branch knocked him on the forehead, but he’d taken worse hits to the cranium and continued on. Branches reached out to trip him at the ankles, but his reflexes were honed by years of athletics; he would_ **_not_ ** _fall. Even as his bare feet slipped on the mud soaked earth, he barreled forward, screams filling his ears until-_

_There she was!_

_Huddled on the ground, black dress soaked through, hair a wild mess of tangles obscuring her face. She screamed again and Marcus could now clearly hear the sobs that were laced into those screams, he could see the way her whole body shook from the effort._

_He raced to her, sliding to his knees as he finally made it to her side._

_“Hermione, Hermione! I’m here, Hermione, I’m here.” He grabbed at her hands, pulling them from her face. “What’s happening-”_

_She looked up at him, dark cheeks stained with tears and rain and mud, and when his russet eyes met her pools of deep amber, Marcus had just enough time to wonder if she could see him before he felt a pull in his stomach._

_When the spinning subsided, Marcus noticed first that the rain had stopped and second that the screaming persisted. Hermione’s wrists were still in his hands, he was staring into her face._

_Her beautiful face that now had shockingly lost all its color._

_But she wasn’t looking at him._

_She was also not the one screaming._

_The screams were coming from_ **_everywhere_ ** _._

_Marcus followed her gaze over his shoulder, never letting go of her wrists, and looked on in growing horror at the frozen events unfolding inside what he could now see was an opulent old manor parlor._

_Two figures were frozen like someone had paused a Muggle movie._

_A version of Hermione, dirty and bloody and much more like the girl he remembered in school, lay on the floor unmoving. Straddling her, knife in hand and equally frozen, was a black haired woman, frightfully pale, mania contorting a face that was probably once lovely, but now was twisted with cruelty._

_The woman looked vaguely familiar in that aristocratic way Marcus grew up associating with the other pure blood families, but he couldn’t place her._

_“No,” came a small whimper, snapping Marcus’s attention back to the witch in his hands. “No, no, no,” she cried._

_Was this part of the dream?_

_“What’s happening-what-” He searched Hermione’s face desperately, eyes racking across her delicate features._

_Delicate features? When the fuck did he become this person?_

_Later. He’d think about that later._

_“No, no,” Hermione repeated, voice barely above a strained whisper. She wrenched her arms from his grip, her small hands flying to her neck._

_Biting his tongue was all Marcus could do to keep from gasping._

_How had he never noticed the scar? He hadn’t spent time just staring at her, it was true, but they’d passed every night together for weeks and yet this was the first time he’d noticed it. The scar was thin but still, it cut across the length of her neck under her chin; a wretched pale line. Marcus turned back to the frozen scene and saw again the knife wielded by the mad eyed woman atop the younger Hermione._

_He nearly gasped._

_A memory._

_Holy sodding_ **_fuck,_ ** _this was a memory._

_He had heard it, the stories of the war were not secrets, at some point it had been mentioned in his presence that Hermione Granger had been tortured and survived. Survived what older more experienced witches and wizards had not._

_Her name was spoken with a reverence at times even amongst the aristocracy. Brightest Witch of Her Age._

_Here she was, sobbing before him._

_“It’s not real,” he soothed, pulling her towards him. “Hermione, I’m here. It’s not real.”_

_He whispered soothing comforts into her wild mess of curls. Or at least, what he hoped were soothing comforts. Marcus had never been one for consoling others, but Hermione’s hands were gripping his shirt like the way you grip a broom when you’re free falling: with your life._

_Her face was buried in him and he could feel more than hear her cries against his chest._

_Marcus tried to think back to his mother, the only person who had ever been able to calm him; he thought of her hands in his thick hair and lips on his forehead. He thought of the gentle lilt of her Devonshire accent. His mother was a descendent of the toad witches of the south west, she knew how to sing to the Old One and how to soothe beasts. She had always known how to comfort him._

_“It’s over,” he whispered, rubbing circles into her back. “I’m here and it’s over.”_

_Hermione shifted her head, tilting her neck back, and stared up at him. He drank in the sight of those eyes. A brilliant golden brown, like a cat, and for the first time that night, Marcus finally felt as though she was_ **_seeing_ ** _him._

_He was unprepared for the things those red rimmed eyes were doing to his stomach._

_Her lips moved almost imperceptibly._

_“Marcus?” she breathed._

_He smiled with a relief he felt deep in his chest._

_And then like the snap of an apparition, they were back in the clearing._

  
  
  
  
  



	9. June 16th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my longest yet. Didn't plan on it, but it just ended up that way. As always, thank you for your reviews and comments, you magnificent land mermaids!

**June 16th, 2009**

**(7:10am) If you need another day, I completely understand**

**(7:10am) I have everything handled**

**(8:00am) Your silence speaks volumes**

  
  


“Granger.”

It was not a question. Nor was it a command, of sorts. Somehow Draco Malfoy could tie so much into merely one word. 

Hermione did not look up.

“Granger,” he repeated and she could tell he’d now taken a step into her office.

Hermione ground her teeth together, jaw aching. She could all but hear her mother chastising her, warning her of the ramifications of clenching one’s jaw. It’s always worse being shamed by dentists and when the dentist is your  _ mother _ \- well, the only word for it really is  _ unpleasant. _

_ Unpleasant. _

“Granger.” Now it was almost a growl. He was in front of her desk. “Why are you ignoring me?”

That was the question then, wasn’t it?

“I’m not ignoring you,” Hermione huffed, eyes never leaving her computer screen.

“You’re a shite liar.”

“I am a brilliant liar.”

“You’re shite.”

Hermione sighed, fingers hovering above the keyboard. “What do you want, Draco?”

“Oh, is Madame Granger gracing me with her attention now? Oh, thank you, thank you, o’ magnanimous one.”

“Listen, Malfoy, I don’t have the time nor the inclination to deal with your-your-”

“Charm?”

“ _ Shenanigans _ .”

“Shenanigans?” Draco’s aristocratic features pinched. “I’ve known you since we were  _ eleven  _ and I have never heard you say  _ shenanigans.”  _

Hermione pushed the flats of her palms into her eyes and groaned. “ _ Malfoy.” _

“Good god, highjinks or tom foolery, those are terms I could see flowing out of your plump red lips, but  _ shenanigans-  _ now, that was truly unexpected. Nearly twenty years, Granger, you’ve never said shenanigans-”

“Considering we spent a great deal of those near two decades not really on speaking terms, it hardly seems surprising that there are nouns within my lexicon that have failed to come up in our conversations thus far-”

“Maybe you weren’t speaking directly to me, Granger, but trust, at Hogwarts the halls all but echoed with that saccharine screech of yours-”

“ _ Saccharine screech?  _ You absolutely  _ odious  _ deviant. I cannot believe you bewitched me into this partnership, obviously I’ve been  _ imperioused _ \- and even if my voice was  _ echoing  _ through the halls, as you say, that doesn't account for the almost decade after that in which we weren’t even in each other’s presence! I just really cannot-”

Draco was grinning. Possibly the widest grin Hermione had ever witnessed on his usually reserved face.

“What  _ are  _ you smiling about, Malfoy?” Hermione huffed, leaning back into her chair, arms crossed over her chest, finally looking at him.

_ How does he always manage to look so very put together? Arsehole. I bet a house-elf picks out his outfits. What an entirely ungenerous thought, Granger. _

“You’re talking to me.”

“For Godric’s sake,” Hermione sighed. Again. “I was never  _ not  _ talking to you.”

Draco tsked. “You’ve barely spoken a word to me all day, despite my charms. Note, I said ‘charms,’ not ‘shenanigans.’ Barely a word.”

“It is amazing to me how you crave attention in this way. One would think that your mother has heaped enough of it onto you over the years that you would’ve met your attention quota by now.”

“My Motherly Attention quota, perhaps, but as you pointed out mere moments ago, I’m a far cry from meeting my Granger Attention quota, I’m nearly two decades behind.”

And, despite herself, this elicited a reluctant chuckle from the witch. “What do you need, Malfoy?” she asked, voice softening. It was amazing how an absolute prat could be so endearing.

“I need,” Draco began, gracefully lowering himself into the chair across from her, “to know why you’re ignoring me.”

He stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankle, and looked at her expectantly. 

The muscle of Hermione’s jaw clenched. “I told you, I’m not-“

Draco cut her off with a wave of his ivory hand. “Spare me, Granger, I’ve already told you you’re a shite liar.”

Hermione glared, amber eyes narrow, but she remained silent.

“We both know you  _ are  _ ignoring me or, I suppose,  _ avoiding  _ would be the better word, wouldn’t it?”

_ Stupid bloody Draco Malfoy.  _

He was absolutely correct. She was avoiding him. She had considered, after spending a few moments staring at her face in the mirror that morning, not going in, taking another mental health day, but ultimately she had reasoned that it was more detrimental to her mental health to remain at home. Alone. With only her thoughts.

She didn’t need her mind to wander right now.

She needed projects and memos and emails.

Not her unencumbered thoughts. 

“I just want to know why.”

“Why,” Hermione repeated lamely. 

Draco sighed. “In case you failed to notice, Granger, that was a  _ long suffering sigh  _ I just heaved.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Fuck’s sake…”

“I love it when you cuss, a rare delight, truly.” Draco winked. Hermione considered punching him. 

_ Endearing. BAH!  _

“Why, dear heart, are you avoiding me?”

The witch bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shifting in her seat. Why wasn’t Draco leaving well enough alone? Sometimes Hermione forgot, under that stoic veneer, just how sensitive Draco was. 

Somewhere in her mind, Luna whispered, “ _ Oh yes, Gemini men have quite sensitive egos. Large and sensitive.” _

Not for the first time Hermione wondered if Draco’s  _ ego  _ was the only  _ quality  _ of Draco’s the pale, blonde witch had been referencing.

Hermione shook her head both to deny Draco’s correct observations and attempt to dispel Luna’s long ago advice. 

She opened her mouth, but Draco was quicker.

“Is it that ginger you’ve shacked up with?”

“You mean my  _ husband? _ ” Hermione growled, right index finger tapping impatiently against her left elbow. 

“Yes, that’s the one,” Draco nodded. “Surely he doesn’t  _ believe  _ that asinine woman’s article? If one could even go so far as to call it an article, more like a loosely strung together series of syllables with little to no sense of reality-“

“No, Malfoy, Ron knows Skeeter is about as trustworthy as I am Sacred Twenty-Eight, whatever behavior you’re  _ interpreting _ from me this morning, it has nothing to do with Ron.”

Draco laughed and the sound was so startlingly bitter that Hermione was forced to look up into a set of cool, grey eyes. 

“Interpreting? Don’t patronize me, Granger. What is it the muggles say? You’ve dropped the term a time or two- is it, gaslighting? Trying to make me question what my eyes are telling me. I know you’ve been avoiding me, stop  _ pretending  _ otherwise.”

_ Fuck _ .

Shame rose into Hermione’s cheeks, red and hot. That’s exactly what she had been doing. 

For a moment Hermione stared at a tiny scrape on her desk a quill had made a few months ago. She had been punctuating a letter to one of the lobbies responsible for maintaining the “conservative values of Wizarding Britain” with such force her hand had slipped and, instead of slashing into the parchment, her quill had slashed into her mahogany desk. 

Mahogany had been Draco’s choice, she’d considered it bit ostentatious if she was being honest-

“Granger, where have you gone to, love?”

Hermione dropped her forehead into her hand, before pushing said hand through her loose curls. “You-you’re right, I’m sorry, I just-“ the witch took a deep breath and sat up straight. “I just can’t talk about it right now. I just can’t.”

Draco stared at her, his face giving nothing away.

How was Hermione supposed to tell him, a friend, that the sight of him was making her nauseated? That his face was reminding her of a time spent years ago, pleading with eyes so similar in a parlor room he knew well. How could she tell him?

She couldn’t.

She looked away, steeling herself against the rising panic in her chest. 

“That’s alright,” Draco’s voice cut through her frenzied thoughts. 

“What?” Hermione looked up. 

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, Granger, but don’t lie to me. It’s an insult to both of us.”

Hermione nodded, swallowing thickly. “That’s fair.”

Draco cast his gaze down, seeming to examine his left shoe, and then raised his eyes to look at her through his platinum fringe. “I thought we were friends, Hermione.”

Hermione threw the first thing she could grab, a ballpoint pen, at him. Draco caught it easily.

_ Bloody seekers. _

“Now you’re just being manipulative!” 

“I was being manipulative the whole time,” the wizard drawled.

“Yes,” Hermione conceded, knowing full well she’d played into Draco’s plan, “but now it’s excessive.”

Draco shrugged noncommittally, but his eyes were smiling. 

“Odious deviant,” Hermione muttered, sinking further into her chair with a petulance she rarely embraced. 

“You adore me, Granger.”

“You wish.”

oOo

The tiny bottle looked so unassuming in Hermione’s palm. Label-less. Odorless. About one third of the way empty.

Yet the witch hesitated. She had flossed and brushed her teeth. She had cleansed and washed her face. She had moisturized. She was wearing oversized pajamas. Rose was in bed. Ron was working late again. 

Now it was just her and this little potion.

Hermione had a fairly good idea what had happened last night. It was well known that alcohol and dreamless draught  _ cannot  _ be mixed in any volume. It was a rare oversight on her part that she hadn’t considered that the dreamful draught, which she believed similar in chemical makeup to the aforementioned dreamless draught, would have similar risks. 

Really, she’d need to speak to George eventually about including warnings and side effects with it if for no other reason than to keep himself and the shop clear of lawsuits. 

_ You’re stalling, Hermione.  _

The witch sighed. She  _ was  _ stalling. On one hand, the dreamful draught left her incredibly well rested and refreshed, whereas dreamless draught, which she had been taking intermittently so as not to form a dependency, destroyed dreams but didn’t leave her quite as ready for the next day. On the other hand, maybe a dreamless night was in order. 

Dreamless and thus, nightmare-less. 

She was exhausted, though. The fortitude it takes to  _ not _ collapse into a hyperventilating mess on the floor of one’s office is both mentally and emotionally taxing. It was all she had that day to not give in to the pains in her chest and restless flairs in her lungs. 

No one knew and no one could know. Hermione was a mother, a wife, a war hero, a best friend. No one could know the nightmares were back. She had been so hopeful that the dreamful draught would help and it had, until last night that is. 

But! Hermione had mixed the draught with alcohol. Barely one glass of wine, but alcohol nonetheless! Weeks without nightmares and eight full hours of sleep every night couldn’t be disregarded simply because of one error. Could it?

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, turning the tiny bottle over in her palm. 

  
  


oOo

  
  


_ She was in the Clearing first. Some nights, Marcus was already there and some nights he arrived shortly after her. She assumed that meant one of two things; either one of them had fallen asleep first (if they were both real) or, for whatever reason, her dreams had simply yet to conjure him.  _

_ They had yet to discuss what had transpired the night before, she’d woken up as soon as they were back in the Clearing to her blaring alarm clock. Hermione had, however, spent a good deal of her day contemplating it. She knew what she remembered, what she had seen. Part of her wondered if Marcus had even been there or if she’d imagined him or, dreamed it more precisely. The logistics of what was really going on here were exhausting.  _

_ The witch shifted uneasily on the balls of her feet before deciding she might as well sit down. It would be terribly convenient if the Dreamland could conjure a chair or a sofa or even just a pillow, but it never did. Just the Clearing and the woods surrounding it. Hogwarts off in the distance, but nothing more. The grass wasn’t uncomfortable, so to speak, just seemed undignified to always be seated on the ground.  _

_ Hermione folded her legs criss-cross in front of her and grabbed a few yellow flowers, they looked to be marsh marigolds, and began braiding them. Kept her hands occupied at least. _

_ “Caltha palustris,” Hermione mused to herself idly, pointedly refusing to think about other more relevant topics. “Of the family Ranunculaceae. Perennial, also known as Kingscup. Toxic to humans. Formerly used to cure warts by muggle healers. An important ingredient in certain healing tinctures. Not magical. _ **_”_ **

**_“_ ** _ Fascinating stuff you keep in that brain of yours, Granger.” _

_ Hermione shot to her feet in one smooth motion, some reflexes too well trained by war to ever be forgotten. _

_ “Marcus!” she exclaimed. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his muggle jeans and even though he was slouching a bit, he was truly massive and suddenly the Clearing felt very, very small. _

_ Like there was no distance between them at all. _

_ Hermione took an instinctive step back.  _

_ “In the flesh,” he chuckled nervously, eyeing the witch. “Or ahh- y’know, as in the flesh as I can be here. In a dream.” _

_ “Right, right,” Hermione muttered, twisting a marsh marigold in her fingers. _

_ They stood like this for a moment. An awkward silence they’d yet to experience descending upon them. All previous silences had been pointed and purposeful. This one was heavy with- with  _ **_something_ ** _. Expectation? Confusion? Conversations Hermione didn’t want to have? _

_ What had he seen? He must’ve seen something! It wouldn’t be this uncomfortable if he hadn’t seen anything, right? He must’ve been there. But how much did he see? Did he see the cruciatus? Did he see when she had soiled herself form the pain, when she’d thrown up for the fourth time? When she’d tried to stand and slipped in her own vomit? Did he hear Bellatrix laugh at the poor, pathetic muggleborn covered in her own excrement? Had he seen the knife, was she being carved when- _

_ “What did the flower ever do to you?” _

_ Hermione looked down at the unrecognizable plant in her hands.  _

_ “Oh,” she muttered quietly, relaxing her fingers. _

_ Hermione stared at the twisted stem where it had fallen and for a moment, the stem morphed horrifically into a human spine. Spines don’t bend that way, but when captured by pain, excruciating pain, the sort of pain that drives even the most brilliant of minds to madness, the human body does peculiar things. Like arching your spine into near impossible positions.  _

_ Oh fuck, she was about to cry. What the absolutely bloody fuck? This was not happening, it  _ **_could not_ ** _ be happening. _

_ She sniffled. _

_ “Granger!” Marcus rushed to her, closing the distance between them in two strides of his long legs. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, enveloping her fully. Hermione cried harder. “Hermione,” Marcus whispered into the mess of curls on top of her head. “What’s wrong?” _

_ She wanted to say,  _ **_Everything is wrong! The nightmares are back and I couldn’t eat all today I felt so sick and my chest was tight and at one point I thought maybe I was dying but I know that’s anxiety, but what if it wasn’t? My hands were shaking when I poured my tea and I didn’t know if it was from my nerves or from cruciatus tremors I thought I’d long recovered from. What is wrong with me, Marcus? What is wrong with me?_ **

_ But instead, she cried into his shoulder. Or more like his sternum. He really was excessively tall. _

_ Marcus didn’t ask again. Instead, he rubbed circles on her back and spoke gentle, soothing nothings into her hair. Who had taught him how to be so calming? It really was at odds with his imposing visage. _

_ Oh gods, she was crying, ugly crying, on Marcus Flint. What the fuck was going on? Ah, but it felt like such a  _ **_relief._ **

_ Hermione rarely cried after the war. She had cried when the healers had told her her parents’ memories were beyond repair. She had cried while she was in labor with Rose. She had cried at Harry’s wedding. _

_ Fin. _

_ End of list.  _

_ Yet here she was, sobbing like a baby, nose running, into Marcus’s shirt. _

_ No, no this couldn’t do. _

_ Hermione pushed him away, wiping desperately at her nose. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she insisted, sucking air harshly in through her nose and nearly coughing as mucus hit the back of her throat from the effort. “I’m fine.” _

_ Marcus was obviously unconvinced if the twist of his mouth was anything to go by, but he let her go.  _

_ “You don’t have to talk about it,” he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. _

_ “Talk about what?” she asked almost defiantly.  _

_ There was  _ **_nothing_ ** _ to talk about, she lied to herself.  _

_ “Last night,” he clarified and Hermione hated how pity transformed his features into something soft and palatable.  _

_ She didn’t want  _ **_palatable_ ** _ Marcus. That wasn’t her Marcus. _

_ She needed  _ **_her_ ** _ Marcus. _

_ Wait no, no there was no Her Marcus.  _

_ “Don’t look at me like that,” Hermione snapped, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself.  _

_ “Look at you like what?” the wizard asked, baffled. _

_ “Like you- you-” Hermione gesticulated madly at his face. “Like you feel  _ **_sorry_ ** _ for me,” she nearly spit.  _

_ Marcus scowled, seeming caught off guard by the venom in her voice, and Hermione mentally kicked herself. She was being unfair. _

_ Goddamn bleeding heart. Guilt was always her biggest enemy.  _

_ “I don’t feel sorry for you.” _

_ As was rage.  _

_ “Yes you do, I can see it on your face.” Hermione waved a hand in front of her own face. “You’re thinking, ‘Oh poor Hermione, sobbing like a nutter, with crazy witches trapped in her head, terrified little waif-“ _

_ “You are projecting your insecurities onto me,” Marcus remarked calmly. “I don’t think you’re a nutter or a waif.” _

_ “I am  _ **_not_ ** _ projecting!” _

_ “You are. You’re obviously feeling vulnerable, I saw something last night you didn’t me, or really, anyone, I’d wager, to see and now you’re lashing out.” _

_ How fucking dare he explain her own feelings to her so rationally. _

_ “I am so not in the fucking mood for another Slytherin to dress me down-“ _

_ “I’m not dressing you- wait, what?” _

_ “I know pity when I see it, Marcus Flint, and that is  _ **_pity_ ** _ on your face and honestly, it’s not a good look for you.” _

_ “Hermione,” Marcus put out his hands in a placating gesture. _

_ “Why are you calling me by my first name? You have  _ **_never_ ** _ used my first name!” _

_ “Do you want me to stop?” _

_ “No! I mean, yes! I mean- fuck, I don’t know!” _

_ Marcus smirked and it was infuriating. “You’re quite out of sorts tonight aren’t you, Granger?” _

_ “That’s better!” Hermione declared, ignoring what he’d actually said. _

_ She was unsettled. She was lashing out. She was feeling vulnerable.  _

_ But she absolutely  _ **_did not_ ** _ need him to be telling her that.  _

**_Get it together, Granger._ **

_ Hermione dropped her hands to smooth non-existent wrinkles from her dress and then pushed a few wayward curls out of her face. “Listen,” she began. “I’m sorry-” _

_ “You don’t sound sorry,” Marcus said, folding his arms across his broad chest. _

_ “Well, I bloody well am-” _

_ “Quite a mouth on you.” _

_ “Oh, sod off." _

_ Marcus rolled his eyes, shoulders sagging. “Whaaaat,” he drew that single syllable out to about three, “is your bloody problem tonight, witch?” _

_ “I don’t have a problem.” Hermione placed her hands on her hips. She remembered reading somewhere that this was a power pose.  _

_ “And I’m the bloody Queen,” Marcus deadpanned.  _

_ “Well, you’re looking lovely, your Majesty.” Hermione curtsied. “You must be hitting the gym. Your personal trainers are truly talented.” _

_ “Like the physique, do you?” Marcus wiggled his eyebrows.  _

_ “You are incorrigible.” _

_ “And you’re not yelling anymore.”  _

_ Hermione looked up sharply in time to catch sight of a soft smile tugging at the corners of Marcus’s mouth and found herself quite disarmed by it, clever retorts dying on her tongue. Had she been yelling? Yes, she supposed she had.  _

_ Marcus didn’t deserve that. Draco hadn’t deserved it today, either. _

_ Hermione scrubbed her face with her hands, fresh tears stinging her eyes.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Marcus. I-I’m a mess,” she choked out, still covering her face.  _

_ Strong hands wrapped around her wrists, dwarfing them almost comically.  _

_ “You’re not a mess,” Marcus whispered. He was so close now, she could feel the heat of his body. Hermione did not move towards that heat but she did soak it up like a woman dying from hypothermia. _

_ Ginny and Luna were great mates, Hermione adored them, really she did. But growing up it had been Ron and Harry who were there to comfort her (when they weren’t being arseholes, which was often, honestly) and there was something about that masculine energy that Hermione responded to in an almost Pavlovian way. It soothed her.  _

_ Hermione  _ **_hated_ ** _ it when women claimed they didn’t get along with other women, seeing it as a response to the patriarchy’s attempts to divide and conquer. Oh, I’m not like other women, they said. What does that even mean? Other women are brilliant and amazing. It was an attempt to ingratiate oneself and earn favor from men and Hermione hated it.  _

_ However, the witch had not been well-liked growing up and as Ron and Harry, through no fault of their biological sex or gender identity, had been her only friends for years, she simply responded to and was more comfortable around wizards.  _

_ “Does anyone know?” Marcus asked, stirring Hermione from her thoughts. _

_ “Know what?” she sniffled. _

_ “About the nightmares,” Marcus clarified, moving his hands to Hermione’s shoulders. _

_ Hermione didn’t remove her hands from her face. “No one,” she barely whispered. _

_ “No one? Not your husband? Not Harry bloody Potter? No one?” She wasn’t looking at him, but Hermione didn’t miss the hard edge in Marcus’s voice. She could envision his scowl, which almost made her chuckle despite herself.  _

_ “How long have you been having them? Is that why you started taking Weasley’s little concoction?”  _

_ “Ten years,” Hermione mumbled into her palms. _

_ Marcus pulled her hands from her face and, placing a large finger under her chin, forced Hermione to look up at him. His brow was furrowed. _

_ “Ten  _ **_years_ ** _?”  _

_ Hermione nodded, casting her gaze down. “I mean, on and off, yes. It was worse the first few years and then they- the nightmares I mean- went away, but they came back while I was pregnant. I couldn’t take anything then, you see, it’s not safe when you’re pregnant to be taking certain potions or medications, dreamless draught and anti-anxiety pills amongst them.” Gods, why was she saying all this? But she couldn’t stop, it was rushing out of her suddenly, these secrets she hadn’t told a soul, not since-  _

_No, she wasn't going to think about that right now._

_ “Well, and then, I suppose, after Rose was born, I wasn’t really sleeping at all, what with a newborn and all. The first few months are just a muddled haze in my mind, I think collectively I slept maybe twelve hours over the course of six months and-and-” _

_ Hermione chanced a look at Marcus and found him focused entirely on her. She quickly looked away, embarrassed by her own ramblings and the intensity of his gaze.  _

_ Up until that moment, besides their large bone structure and being predisposed to glowering, Hermione had not noticed a family resemblance between Viktor and Marcus, but there it was staring at her.  _

_ Their eyes.  _

_ Marcus and Viktor had the same dark pools of chocolate and suddenly, when her mind made that snap connection, her knees buckled and the words kept tumbling out of her mouth, cascading from her like a waterfall. _

_ She could never keep any secrets from Viktor and now she couldn’t keep any from Marcus either. She couldn’t hide from those eyes. _

_ “-and then the nightmares came back. They started off less intense, I heard her laughing or I’d see the quick flash of a knife, the whisper of a cruciatus, and from there they built back up until I was remembering it all in vivid detail. I hope. I had hoped,” she swallowed, the words getting stuck in her throat, “that time would dull the memories, that maybe I would start to, I don’t know, forget? But I can’t forget it, Marcus, I can’t! I can’t-” _

_ Marcus pulled her against him, crushing her into his hard chest. Distantly, as if she were floating above them, Hermione could hear herself repeating, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-” like a mad woman. She pushed her hands into her curls, pulling them at the roots, attempting to ground herself in the sensation. It wasn't working. _

_ With an impossible gentleness, Marcus slid them both to the ground and pulled Hermione onto his lap like she was a child.  _

_ He held her. He didn’t speak. He didn’t judge. He didn’t offer any useless platitudes. He simply held her and she fell into him.  _

_ Minutes passed, possibly years for all Hermione knew, and slowly her sobs abated and her breathing evened and her fingers loosened their vice like grip on her scalp.  _

_ A few moments after that, Marcus spoke. _

_ “I think you need to tell someone.” _

_ Hermione pushed her face into his chest. His heart was beating in a slow, steady rhythm, much at odds with the palpitations she’d been feeling all day.  _

_ “I used to see a muggle therapist,” she confessed.  _

_ Marcus nodded. “That’s- good, yea that’s good. But I mean, you need to tell your friends what’s going on.” _

_ Hermione shook her head. _

_ “Granger, they can help-” _

_ “No, no I can’t.” _

_ “Can’t or won’t?” the wizard growled. _

_ “Both.” _

_ “Granger-” _

_ “I’m fine! Marcus, really, I’m fine. Everyone has scars, mine aren’t even the most impressive. Harry- well, I just can’t do that to them. Ron lost his brother, Molly and George have never been the same. We all have scars and I can’t  _ **_burden_ ** _ them with mine.” _

_ “Hermione,” Marcus took her cheeks in her hands, turning her face to him. “You are,” he began very slowly, “not a burden. To  _ **_anyone.”_ **

_ “But,” she felt so small, “I would be. If I took this to them, I would be.” _

_ Marcus shook his head. “Never.” _

_ “I would, you don’t understand! Marcus, you don’t understand.” _

_ He didn’t, couldn’t understand. Hermione didn’t know where Marcus Flint had been during the war, perhaps off playing quidditch, but there was no way he could understand what it had done to her friends.  _

_ “I’ll tell you what I do understand, I understand that you are a brilliant, loyal, courageous witch who couldn’t be a burden to anyone, even if she tried.” _

_ “Ha! Well, that’s much different than how I was perceived at school, that’s for sure.” She was attempting to lighten the mood. Attempting and failing. _

_ “You need to tell them.” _

_ “No, I don’t.” Hermione pulled away, not out of his lap, but away from his hands. “This is mine to tell and if I don’t want to, I won’t.” _

_ Marcus frowned, a V forming between his eyebrows. _

_ Gods, he looked just like Viktor when he did that. How had she not noticed before? Now that she had found this common thread between them, she couldn’t help but compare Viktor and Marcus. This is exactly what Viktor would be telling her too if he were here, too.  _

_ She pulled away from Marcus a little more.  _

_ “Besides, the dreamful draught is working just fine, once I started taking it the nightmares stopped,” she pointed out. _

_ “What would you call last night then?” Marcus cocked an ebony eyebrow. _

_ “An oversight. Alcohol and dreamless draught can’t be mixed, I should have assumed dreamful draught would be the same.” _

_ “Alcohol? I thought you didn’t drink?” _

_ “I don’t normally, but after Skeeter published that  _ **_outlandish_ ** _ article-” _

_ “Wait- what article?” _

_ “Ugh! I forgot we didn’t get a chance to discuss this. You know how I went out with Luna and Ginny the other night? Well, Draco was there with Blaise and while Blaise was busy flirting up a witch, Draco came over to say hello and of fucking course somehow Rita fucking Skeeter found out and spun this whole tale about me having - I don't know, an  _ **_affair_ ** _ with Draco!” _

_ “With Malfoy? You and Malfoy?” _

_ “Yes!” _

_ “That’s fucking barmy.” _

_ “YES!” _

_ “Rita Skeeter is a cunt.” _

_ “YES! I mean, that’s really an obscene choice of words, but yes, she’s an absolute bottom dweller and anyway, I knew Ron wasn’t going to believe the article, the press has been portraying me as some sort of Jezebel since I was  _ **_fourteen,_ ** _ but I was so upset that night and Ron was working late-” _

_ “He left you alone after that?” _

_ “The shop’s been busy,” Hermione snapped, defending Ron instantly. “And I told him I was fine and didn’t need him to come home, but I was just so bloody upset I decided to have a glass of wine to calm my nerves and well, here we are. Or, I suppose, here we were, last night, I mean,” Hermione finished awkwardly.  _

_ Marcus’s face shifted, like he was running his tongue over his teeth. “So,” he began slowly, “you think mixing the draught with alcohol’s what did it, then?” _

_ Hermione nodded. _

_ Marcus’s frown deepened. “Granger, I have taken that draught every night for weeks and I haven’t been sober the whole time.” _

_ Hermione froze, taken back by the sensation of her throat dropping into her knees. She tried to ask him to elaborate, but couldn’t quite form the words. Fortunately, he continued regardless. _

_ “And not just a little glass of wine either, I was pretty fucking pissed the other night when you attacked me-” _

_ “You were drunk on Saturday night?”  _

_ “Oh completely,” Marcus smirked in a way Hermione had come to associate with when he was being self-deprecating. It happened more than one would expect. “I went out with the lads from the team, I tried some muggle concoction called a jagger bomb-” _

_ “Oh fuck!” Hermione brought a hand to her mouth in horror. _

_ “Yea, it was pretty fucking terrible, but got better after the fourth one-” _

_ “ _ **_Fourth_ ** _ one?!” Hermione’s voice had gone up at least two octaves.  _

_ “And the six ales-” _

_ “SIX ales? Good god, Marcus! Four jagger bombs and six ales? You- you should be dead! If I tried to drink that much, I’d definitely be dead-” _

_ “Of course you would, look at you, you weigh as much as one of my thighs.” _

_ Hermione glared, mouth partially open in a sneer. Marcus’s grin widened.  _

_ “The muscle helps me burn the alcohol faster,” Marcus pointed out, flexing a bicep to emphasize his point. _

_ Hermione rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, that is still an absolutely  _ **_irresponsible_ ** _ amount to drink.” _

_ “Oh aye, it was terrible. Felt bloody awful the next morning.” _

_ “I’m sure.” _

_ “But my point is, Granger, I drank myself under the table, came home, put a drop of the dreamful draught under my tongue and slept like a baby. A nightmare-less baby.” _

_ Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, nose scrunched in thought.  _

_ “There must be something I’m missing then, some reason why mixing alcohol and the draught would affect me and not you.” _

_ “Maybe it has nothing to do with mixing the two-” _

_ “It has to,” Hermione snapped. “As you said, we’ve been taking the draught for weeks and nothing like this happened until I had that glass of wine-” _

_ “Correlation doesn’t equal causation, Granger.” _

_ Hermione huffed. “You're not using that term properly. Besides, the simplest explanation is often the most likely-” _

_ “But not always.” _

_ Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and looked Marcus directly in his dark eyes. “I am not,” she began forcefully, “going to tell anyone about the nightmares and as it is my business, not yours, I would thank you to leave. It. Alone.” _

_ Marcus stared at Hermione, eyes boring into her face with all the intense scrutiny of his cousin, and the witch fought the urge to squirm. She summoned the unwavering stubbornness she had always employed when her and Viktor had fought. Their arguments were few and far between, Viktor knew how to pick battles with his former fiance, but he also knew how to cut through her walls like they were made of sand.  _

_ Hermione did not break eye contact, but she did feel something suddenly snap.  _

_ “Gods, you have his eyes,” she whispered before she could stop herself. _

_ Marcus’s eyebrows migrated up his forehead in surprise. “Whose?” _

**_Shut up, Hermione!_ **

_ “Viktor’s.” _

**_Oh for fuck’s sake._ **

_ Impossibly, Marcus’s eyebrows lifted higher.  _

_ “Viktor Krum?” _

_ “What other Viktor could I possibly be referencing?” _

__

_ “Dunno, just didn’t expect that.” _

_ “Well, you do. So-” Hermione floundered awkwardly, “it was a compliment, by the way.” _

_ “I’d hoped yea.” Marcus tilted his head to the side, considering her for a moment. “I don’t really want to change the subject, but since you’re stubborn as fuck and I’m smart enough to at least know I’m not going to get anywhere on the subject of telling people about your nightmares tonight, I’m going to give into something that I’ve been wondering for awhile.” _

**_Oh?_ **

_ “What?” _

_ “Why did you call off your engagement to Viktor?” _

_ And there it was.  _

_ Hermione used to get asked this question quite often by the most inappropriate of people. A random witch at a coffee shop, passerby on the street, Molly Weasley. It had been years, however, and since she was now a married mother, her brief engagement to the world’s most famous seeker had faded from the public interest. _

_ Hermione, realizing she was still in Marcus’s lap, pushed herself away and settled into the grass facing him. She placed her elbows onto her knees and her chin in her hands. This wound had faded, as wounds do, to a dull ache, where once it was as fresh and painful as a cursed blade on her skin. _

_ “This is not what I expected to talk about tonight,” Hermione admitted. _

_ Marcus shrugged. “You don’t have to, it’s really none of my business.” _

_ “No, it’s not,” Hermione agreed thoughtfully. “But I’d honestly rather discuss this so I’ll take the subject change, as unexpected as it is.” The witch took a deep breath. “Why don’t you tell me what you already know and I’ll correct misassumptions while also not boring you with any repetitive details.” _

_ “Why don’t you just assume I don’t know anything and give me the real story.” _

_ Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Well, you obviously know something or you wouldn’t have asked.” _

_ “Viktor and I aren’t close, but word travels around a family, even to the distant branches.” _

_ Hermione nearly pointed out that the connection between Marcus and Viktor wasn’t quite so distant, but then she’d have to admit she’d gone snooping into their shared lineage. Instead she said, “Fine, well, the abridged version is that we reconnected after the war, dated for a few years and got engaged. I ended things because we weren’t a proper fit, simple as that. No hard feelings between us.” _

_ “It’s never as simple as that. The two of you were going to get married, you were planning out the rest of your lives, or, at least, that’s what I assume people do when they’re engaged, never experienced it myself.” _

_ Hermione ran a hand through her curls, cursing to herself as her fingers caught on a knot. Most people growing up assumed she inherited her curls from her mother’s side of the family, but truthfully her hair was closer in texture to her paternal grandmother; tight, thick ringlets, but frizzy and prone to tangling.  _

_ “Yes, you’ve got the right of it,” Hermione agreed a bit snappier than was necessary, she had a sensitive scalp and pulling her hair always made her a bit more aggressive than she meant to be.  _

_ “Hit a nerve did I?” _

_ “No! I just found a knot in my bloody hair,” Hermione sighed. “Sorry, anyway, you’re right. Ending a relationship is never that simple. Are you sure you want to know? It’s really not that interesting.” _

_ “Try me.” _

_ “It was my potential in-laws.” _

_ “You’re right, that is classic. What was the problem with ol’ Boris and Marina? They’ve always been alright to me, but I was never trying to marry their son.” _

_ “Their  _ **_only_ ** _ son," Hermione pointed out. _

_ Marcus frowned.  _

_ “Viktor is the scion of his house. The only legitimate male heir who still bears the Krum name and in Eastern Europe, that’s the same as being a Malfoy or a Rosier and I was-” Hermione hesitated, maybe the ache was a bit sharper than she tried to imagine. “I was not what they expected of a daughter-in-law.” _

_ “Boris and Marina are-” Marcus stopped for a moment, considering his words, “ _ **_old-fashioned_ ** _ but they're not blood-pursists, what were their-” _

_ Hermione cut her off with a sharp shake of her head. “No, it wasn’t my blood status they took issue with, it was my status status.” _

_ “Status status?” _

_ “If I’d been a half-blood from a prominent family they wouldn’t have had a problem, but a Granger brings no political or economic advantages.” _

_ “But you’re a bloody war hero!” Marcus insisted. Hermione’s mouth titled in the ghost of a smile at the indignation she heard in his voice. _

_ How odd to find herself defended by Marcus Flint. Life is weird. _

_ “I’m a British war hero, that doesn’t mean quite as much on the continent, I’m afraid.” _

_ Marcus scoffed. “Wankers! If you and Potter hadn’t stopped that fucker he would’ve moved onto Europe next.” _

_ Hermione nodded. “Indeed, but as it is we did stop him and in the rest of the world what we call the second wizarding war is simply known as the British wizarding war. I’m well-liked, I think, abroad, but it’s not the same as it is here.” _

_ Marcus shook his head, face twisted in a sneer. “Fuckers the lot of them. Alright so, Boris and Marina didn’t approve ofthe engagement, I’d bet good galleons that Viktor didn’t give a fuck.” _

_ Hermione smiled softly, her heart fluttering at the memory. “No, Viktor didn’t care,” she whispered. _

_ “Yea, because he’s not a complete idiot. Only someone mentally unwell would let you go.” _

_ Hermione’s gentle smile spread into a broad grin. “I’m flattered you think so highly of me.” _

_ Marcus matched her grin with a wink. “I’m only friends with the best, Granger.” _

_ This elicited a laugh, a full belly laugh, from the witch. “I’ll put that on my resume going forward. ‘Friends with Marcus Flint.’” _

_ Marcus flashed her a grin that was all teeth. “See that you do. I’ll put in a good word.” _

_ “Oh gee, thanks,” Hermione laughed again.  _

_ “If Viktor didn’t care what his parents thought, what was the problem then?” _

_ Hermione sobered immediately, face falling as quick as a lead balloon.  _

_ “He didn’t care then, but- he would’ve cared later.” _

_ It was an old, practiced excuse, but it still felt sour on her tongue.  _

_ Marcus opened his mouth, shut it quickly, and then opened it again. “What a load of shit, Granger.” _

_ Hermione gaped. “He would’ve! Maybe not after five years, but after ten or fifteen he would’ve-” _

_ “Bullshite. My cousin isn’t like that.” _

_ “They threatened to take everything! His inheritance, his  _ **_name-_ ** _ ” _

_ “Viktor doesn’t need his inheritance, he has more money than he knows what to do with.” _

_ That was true, international stardom pays well. _

_ “They were going to disown him, Marcus, he never would have seen his parents again or his siblings. They would’ve cut him off from his family! I couldn’t, alright, I just couldn’t be the reason he never saw his parents again.” _

_ In her mind flashed her own parents who didn’t even know she existed.  _

_ “They wouldn’t have stuck with that. After you had a grandchild they would’ve come crawling back.” _

_ “There was no way of knowing that for certain and I wasn’t going to make Viktor choose between us.” _

_ “So you chose for him,” Marcus observed not unkindly, but the implication still stung. _

_ “I did the best thing for him! For us! I didn’t want to be loathed either, I didn’t want to be the woman who destroyed a family!" _

_ Marcus held up his hands, dropping his head slightly. “You’re right, I’m in no position to judge.” _

_ “You’re bloody well right you’re in no place to judge.” _

_ “And it all worked out, you’re married to Weasley, got yourself a successful career and a wee one.” _

_ Hermione nodded. “It did work out for me, yes.” _

_ Marcus was sharper than she’d given him credit for when they were in school. “For you? But what about the world’s best seeker? Well in his thirties and still a hopeless bachelor.” _

_ “I’m not so presumptuous or conceited that I think I have anything to do with Viktor’s relationship status. We ended things years ago and we parted amicably, we’re still friends. Viktor just hasn’t found anyone who strikes his interest yet.” _

_ “How could he? He lost the love of his life.” _

_ Hermione didn’t realize her face could go pale at the same time as a blush flooded her cheeks. “Please,” she scoffed, waving a hand in the air, “I wasn’t the love of his life.” _

_ “Granger?” _

_ “What?” _

_ “You’re an idiot.” _

_ “Arsehole.” _

_ Marcus grinned.  _


End file.
